


The Long, Dark Night of the Soul

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: deancasbigbang, F/M, M/M, Monsters, Purgatory, Quest, Redemption, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding their way through purgatory means Dean and Castiel must face monsters and an endless landscape of darkness, but it also means they must navigate the wilds of their own troubled souls. Meanwhile, Sam seeks out an ally in his quest to bring his brother home and finds he has his own unpleasant truths to face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/profile)[**akadougal**](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/) for excellent beta work and being a cheerleader throughout! Thanks to the DCBB mods for putting together such a wonderful project. And really, extra super-special thanks to my artist, [](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/)**scarletscarlet** , who in addition to the art has helped with monster design, plot tweaks, and supplementary beta duties, and has really been a true partner in making this story happen. I am so grateful.

 

Cold air wafts, like the breath of a frightened creature, against Dean's jaw. He takes in a breath himself, and the air is chilly as it goes down, nearly bringing him to coughs. It's like swallowing knives.

His eyes stay wide open. He has to remain alert; he's surrounded, by things moving and things not, and there's no telling when one may become the other. Below him he thinks he can count on the ground staying solid; around him the vegetation gives him less to be sure of. It’s all dark tangles, leaves and branches and nettles, equally and uniformly black, and before his eyes it all seems to pulse and move. There's no telling whether the trees will come alive and snake angry arms around his throat to choke him. And the things that wait in the dark are certain to move sooner or later. It’s all a matter of when, and what strikes first.

He's in purgatory, and he's terrified.

Alone, facing down a horde of monsters lurking just out of view. This used to be where he felt most at home. Didn't matter what back-country forest or swamp, whether he knew how to kill the thing that was hunting him, he was in his element in a fight like this. The old Dean would pull out the knife that presses cold iron into his hip, brandish it, and shout, "Come at me!"

The old Dean has been gone a long time.

It's not that he's gone soft or cowardly. He'll still pull out that knife if the creatures move, if he senses the danger. But he's not about to make the first play like he would five years ago. Not alone, and not in this place. Maybe he's gotten smarter. Or maybe he's just made more mistakes.

A minute ago Cas was there. Talking to him, sounding relatively sane and focused, a shade of the old friend he thought more than once he'd lost. But Cas isn't here now. Like it or not, Dean's alone, and he's got to deal with this on his own.

First step: stay alive.

He slinks back, retreating to the edge of the clearing where he woke up, aware at every moment of the weapon at his side and the creatures that crouch in wait all around him. A single sharp or sudden movement could unleash hell upon him -- _well,_ he thinks, sardonically, _not quite hell._ His plan is to back into the underbrush without being noticed, become a part of the landscape as best he can. As he sneaks, his gaze drifts over one of the pairs of red eyes that glow in the faraway darkness. He looks away as fast as he can, but now he can feel the creature's gaze locked on him, tracing his every movement.

"Nice kitty," he mumbles under his breath, though he has no idea if he's facing a cat or an elephant or an angry vampire. "Good kitty, don't bite."

His hand fumbles for the knife as he takes another step back. A twig snaps beneath his foot. The red eyes narrow.

"Shit," he hisses, keeping the sound low, and moves back with feet dragging along the soil to avoid making another conspicuous noise. One safe footfall toward the treeline. Another. He dares to turn.

That's when it comes.

The beast leaps from the trees, and he manages to duck it. Turning around, he sees it scrambling on its haunches, panting, craning its neck to look back at him with glowing eyes.

"God," Dean breathes. "What the hell are you?"

It could have once been a wolf, or a horse of some sort, but now it’s something altogether alien. Its skin hangs off its body in long, bloody flaps, its bones are skewed and broken, and the pulsing of its organs is visible through the few translucent layers of skin that are still attached. It's nearly inside-out, and it shouldn't be breathing - but still it breathes, and bleeds, and lunges at him again. This time Dean's too horrified to move away in time, and it pins him to the ground. The stench of rot fills his nostrils, and he chokes.

But the creature's claws are as broken as its body. They fracture around Dean’s skin, falling and loosening. Despite the piercing pain of one nail that’s sunk into his shoulder, Dean manages to wriggle free. He rolls across the ground, finds his feet again, and now draws out the knife. The edge of it glints silver in the dimness. The monster's eyes flash red in response.

It charges, and Dean drags the point along the animal's skin as he dodges. Another flap of fat and meat comes loose and hangs in a long strip from the creature's side. The stench that assaults Dean's nostrils is horrible. He coughs, chokes. The monster gets a second wind as he’s fighting for breathable air, and Dean's knife is knocked from his hand, spinning wildly off to the side in the single swipe of a dark, disjointed claw.

Dean gasps, lurches to the side to grab for the weapon, and the creature knocks him down again. Its weight settles over him, and this time he’s well and truly pinned down.

 _Oh God,_ it's like looking up into the jaws of death with this thing over him, all snout and teeth and horrible red eyes. It stares, and a drop of drool falls from its tongue onto Dean's face. He spits it away, turning his head, but enough gets through his lips that he can taste it -- so bitter and vile he thinks it might burn through his face and kill him. He blinks up at the creature, and its eyes lock him into the gaze. It’s like a rod going right through his brain, piercing, penetrating, and Dean's seeing his own death, his own torture and sin and everything he's ever tried to not see, reflected there in this creature's eyes.

 _It's going to kill me_ , he thinks wildly. _It's going to take me apart. I can't-- I can't--_

Claws sink into the flesh of his arm. He hears himself scream.

_Help! Someone, help!_

The red eyes are filling his vision with blood. It’s in his mouth, too, metallic on his tongue, and he sputters, eyes closing in the desperation that comes a moment from defeat.

_Cas, I need you!_

 

* * *

 

 

Black spatters coat the laboratory like the meat of a Jackson Pollock painting. The stuff covers everything -- surfaces and windows and the slippery tiles of the floor -- the spread of it broken only where two sets of feet used to stand. Sam stares at the boot-sized prints where Dean was. There are no guts, no solid remnants of Dick Roman. And nothing of Dean, either. If the explosion claimed his life, Sam figures, there would be something left.

But all that's left in this room is death. Sam wants nothing more than to bolt, but he can't. There are things he has to do first.

The first is simple enough. He’s in a laboratory, which means there are chemicals, labeled in English (not some ancient Leviathan language, thank God), and gas valves aplenty. He opens them all the way. As the stench of gas builds up in the room, Sam busies himself finding the most volatile of the chemicals, setting them on Bunsen burners to heat up slowly. The smell's nearly choking him, and he hears the first pop of combustion as he hustles out of the building as fast as he knows how.

He isn't fast enough. The explosion rumbles behind him and mushrooms faster than he can run. The back of his shirt catches fire, and he launches himself out the door onto the pavement. His body bruises as he rolls over and over on the concrete, and by the time the flames on his shirt are extinguished, his back is seething and blistering with the heat. Scratched up, skin stinging, he rises up onto one knee and watches from a safe distance as SucroCorp goes up in flames, all its poison evaporating with it. Sam knows better than to think it will kill any of the Leviathans still in the building, but at least he's kept his promise to Kevin.

Kevin. Another loose end he has to tie up. What Crowley wants with him, where he's taken him... it's all a huge blank in Sam’s mind.

When the burn's pain has faded from unbearable into just piercing, Sam forces his way to his feet. He has one more job to do here, one thing he absolutely has to accomplish.

He makes for the shattered sign and navigates his way through the fragments of glass until he can open the front door of the Impala.

Grass crunches and splinters under the wheels as he eases the car into reverse, backs her out of the mess she's created. Meg left the engine running, and it seems to be intact, if overheated. No sign of Meg herself, and Sam couldn't care less, not right now. Meg's less than important. What's important is that he and the car get the hell out of there before law enforcement gets too interested in that fireball pouring plumes of smoke into the sky. So, fragments of glass and all, Sam eases the car back, then shifts her into drive to head out the way she came.

Once he's outrun any danger of being caught, Sam shifts, groaning, on the scraps of glass still protruding from the ripped-up seat and pulls out his phone. Crowley had said he was well and truly alone. But the world is a big place, and Sam's been all over it. He has people. And as much as he hates it, he will pull them into his fight when he needs to.

He dials Jody Mills' number.

 

* * *

 

 

_Cas, I need you!_

The words echo in his mind like they'll do something significant, but nothing happens. Dean fights to stay conscious. He has been torn apart once before, by the dogs of death and the stroke of midnight. This feels the same. As much as he can, he prepares himself to be ripped to shreds again. He grits his teeth in anticipation of the claw to the gut, the hungry teeth piercing his skin.

He can feel them coming, but they never land. No skin broken, no spurts of blood, no more pain. Just a loud thud that echoes in his skull. He dares to look up.

A thick tree branch has swung from the side and slammed the creature in the head. It hangs there a moment, stunned, then falls backward and lands in the brush, one of its legs bending beneath it with a nasty-sounding crunch. Dean scrambles to his feet and searches in the dirt for his knife. Only once he's found it does he look over at his savior.

Castiel's face is white, and his hands are shaking as they hold tight to the huge branch. When Dean's eyes meet his, he wavers. "I had no choice," he says, and in the dimness it's hard to see, but Dean thinks he might be on the verge of tears.

It makes his heart lurch, but there's no time for worry. Not with the wounded creature letting out a loud cry and the underbrush rustling as others raise their heads, red eyes glowing to life and eventually fixing on Castiel. Dean clutches his knife. "Cas, move!"

He slices forward as the first leaps through the treeline and charges them. It's ugly in a different way, horns and leather where the other was fur and claws, but it, too, looks like it's spent a century in a blender. Skin and guts and sinew trail everywhere and leave a slick black trail across the cleaning.

Dean goes for its eyes, and he swears he can hear a hissing noise as his knife lands in the center of the creature's pupil. The eye shorts and blinks, then winks out, and, stung, the creature butts at Dean, leveling its horns at him and swiping wildly. Dean's caught on the blunt side of one and tossed like a rag doll across the clearing. Castiel shouts. He presses his hand to the creature's hide, and it sizzles, like the eye did when Dean stabbed it. The creature staggers off in pain. Grabbing up his tree branch again, Castiel stands like a goalkeeper, legs spread, trying to cover the space between the monster and Dean as best he can.

"Cas!" The name wrenches from Dean's mouth before he can stop it, and as soon as he's scrambled up to stand with Castiel, knife at the ready, another two creatures burst forward from the forest. One flies, and it caws brokenly as it beats tattered wings and hovers above them. Another looks like an oversized worm, sliding along with a gaping wide mouth and endless layers of blubber that have been torn in places until the fat bubbles forth from its skin.

Three creatures, the fourth slowly recuperating from its blow and starting to growl as it shakily gets up, and there's only the two of them. Dean glances at Castiel. His face has ceased its trembling and is back to the battle mask Dean remembers from the early days when they fought side by side. It's comforting. "Cas, tell me you have some angel mojo that can send these guys packing."

Castiel's eyes dart toward his. "I wish I did."

Dean feels like crying. He laughs instead. "Well. It's been nice knowing you."

He brandishes his knife. The creatures move in.

A low noise begins far in the depths of the forest and spreads to the edge. The creatures look to the sky and join in. It's the sound of a million creatures, lowing and braying, each calling out a message that Dean can't comprehend. All of purgatory is howling.

And then, they retreat. They pad and slither and fly back to the woods, leaving Dean and Castiel standing alone and confused. Dean's eyes linger on the obscene flaps of skin trailing behind them. It takes him a minute to figure out what else has changed, but Castiel's upturned face clues him in. Light is filling the sky -- not brightness, not sunshine, but light.

Dean lowers his knife. "What the--"

"They rest," Castiel says.

"Rest?" Dean's grip tightens on the knife's handle. He doesn't believe it for a second. "I thought the whole point was they never stop tearing each other apart."

"Think back to hell, Dean," Castiel says. "When you were on the rack. You were torn apart, and then what?"

"And then... my body would heal itself," Dean says. He looks down at the nicks and lacerations on his arms. Already they are fading. "So what, this is naptime?"

"No telling how long it will last," Castiel says. "But if we want to find a way out, now's the time to do it."

"There's a way out?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe not. Every instance of a door opening has been from the other side."

"So we're screwed." Dean's heart sinks.

"Not necessarily. Your brother may be able to free us."

"What, Sam? He doesn't even know where we are."

"Indeed." The graveness on Castiel's face chills Dean to the bone. "We can only hope he finds out."

 

* * *

 

 

"I have no idea where they are. No clue. For all I know, Crowley took them to Hell."

Sam tangles his hair around his fingers and pulls, as though the pain will sharpen his thought process. Across the room, Jody stares at him, arms crossed. "You keep wearing a hole in my floor, you're gonna end up down under, too," she says.

This stops his pacing, and Sam looks over at her. A hint of a smile touches her lips, and her eyebrows are arched. The expression softens under his gaze. "Look, Sam, I get it. You want to find your brother. I'm happy to help you, but the first thing you have to do is stop panicking and think."

Sam takes a deep breath. It doesn't help much. "This isn't just a missing persons case," he says. "He disappeared. One minute there, he and Cas stabbing Dick Roman. Then a big explosion and... nothing. No bodies, no clues, just black goo everywhere. Where the hell do I even start figuring out what happened to them?"

"You start right there. With the facts."

Jody's gaze is unflinching, and it calms him. He lowers his hands, forces his fingers to relax. "Are you sure it's OK for me to be here? I'm still a fugitive." He looks nervously out the window, as though the FBI might pull up any minute and lock him away.

"Of course it's OK. Tell you the truth, it's nice to have a guest. This place is too big for just me. Can't believe I haven't moved yet." Her eyes flicker upward to the family photo atop the fireplace, and she gives a soft chuckle. "Then again, it's been a while since I thought I could just run away from it all. You and Bobby cured me of that notion."

"I'm sorry," Sam offers. "I know it doesn't mean much, but I really--"

"It means a lot." Her eyes aren't quite teary, but the sadness in them is palpable. A twinge of guilt twists the fibers of his heart.

And then another twinge, in another place. Jody starts. "Sam? You OK?"

He laughs. "Yeah. I think I have some glass in my--"

"Oh, sweet Jesus. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't I figure it out? Come on, upstairs."

"Jody. I appreciate it, but the glass isn't in... a friendly place." He winces again, and this time she can see from the twitching of his muscles just where it's embedded.

She blows air through her lips. "Please. You think I haven't seen a man's ass before? You want to get infected or something? Upstairs, Winchester. Now."

He has the distinct feeling that if he doesn't cooperate, she'll pick him up and carry him there, size be damned. This is going to be truly awkward.

 

* * *

 

"So you're absolutely sure there's nothing you can do to get us out of here?"

It's the third time Dean's asked, but he keeps hoping Cas will think of something. Never mind that Cas hasn't thought of anything in the past half-hour. The definition of insanity, he thinks, and chuckles. And here he'd thought he was the sane one.

"If I were somewhere else, if I could gather the requisite components to re-enact the spell," Castiel says. "But there's no telling if it would even work from this side. If it did, I suspect the denizens of Purgatory would long since have invaded our world. I suspect the door only unlocks from the outside."

"That's the point of building a jail," Dean agrees. He slumps against the face of a mound of rocks, a cliff of sorts. It slopes on the other side to a hill, and weird dark tangles of something like grass dot the top. It's high ground, and it's probably the best place to watch for the moment the creatures start to stir again. He hoists himself up over the edge of it, stands up, and looks around.

Castiel follows him. "My Father knew what he was doing." He half-chuckles. "At least, he did in the beginning."

"I'm long past hoping for divine intervention," Dean says. Up here on the hilltop, there's a single tree, gnarling branches and dark leaves. He picks one of the leaves and stares down at it. It's not like any leaf he's ever seen, not made of fibers and pulp the way normal leaves are. It moves inside, as though it's liquid packed into a mold, dark pools running back and forth and swirling within the solid shape of it. He twists the leaf between his thumb and forefinger and it breaks down, leaves inky smudges on his skin.

"So what's our next move?" he says, wiping the black stuff off on the tree bark with a grunt.

"I can't tell you that," Castiel says evenly.

"Well, we can't just sit here waiting for those things to kill us. Think, Cas. You have to have heard something about purgatory when you were up in heaven. What do you know?"

He glances at Castiel and takes a sharp breath in. Castiel's eyes have unfocused, and he's half-smiling in that bewildered way that tells Dean he's checked out of reality again. "I wonder how many leaves are on this tree?" he says.

Dean snaps a finger. "Focus."

"Eleven, twelve.. seventeen." Castiel's voice fades in and out as he counts. Dean watches him with increasing ire. He clears his throat, balls up a fist and lands it on the tree trunk. The leaves shiver. Castiel frowns at him. "You made me lose count. I'll have to start again."

"Cut the crap and focus. You have to help me find a way out of here before we get killed."

"I seriously doubt that will happen."

"Oh, well, I feel so much better then," Dean snaps. "You know what your doubt is worth right now? A hill of crap, that's what. Are you just here to count leaves?"

Big eyes meet his, then narrow. "Dean," Castiel says, "I'm just _here_."

"What, that's it? End of sentence?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Then what the hell is the point of you?"

Castiel stares at him a minute. His mouth opens, then shuts again.

Dean realizes what he's done too late. He tries to take a step, to smooth things over, but it's too late. Cas is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding their way through purgatory means Dean and Castiel must face monsters and an endless landscape of darkness, but it also means they must navigate the wilds of their own troubled souls. Meanwhile, Sam seeks out an ally in his quest to bring his brother home and finds he has his own unpleasant truths to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/profile)[**akadougal**](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/) for excellent beta work and being a cheerleader throughout! Thanks to the DCBB mods for putting together such a wonderful project. And really, extra super-special thanks to my artist, [](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/)**scarletscarlet** , who in addition to the art has helped with monster design, plot tweaks, and supplementary beta duties, and has really been a true partner in making this story happen. I am so grateful.

There aren't enough "Son of a bitch!"es for this situation.

OK, so it's light. And the monsters are, if Cas wasn't shitting him, sleeping. That doesn't make Dean any less lost or any less alone, thanks to his fucked-up, conflict-avoidant former bee-eff-eff, who seems to have bailed at the first sign of a temper he ought to know by now Dean has a habit of unleashing. Dean sinks into the grasslike stuff, fairly sure it's leaving dark smears all over the ass of his jeans, not caring. "Come on, Cas," he moans, head in his hands. "Don't do this to me, man. I told you, I'd rather have you here. You gonna make me beg every time for you to come back?"

He peeks through his fingers. Nothing.

Well, fine, then. "Please come back, dude."

And there's Cas. Blinking into the space in front of him, apparently damn determined to make him beg.

"I've been thinking about adopting some cats," he says.

Son of a _bitch_.

"Where the hell were you?" Dean says, rising from the grass, brushing his hand over his backside to get rid of any blades that might come loose.

Castiel looks at him. "I wasn't," he says.

"Excuse me?"

"I wasn't anywhere." Castiel looks no more than mildly interested at this development. He steps forward, brow furrowing in thought. "I was simply removed from the equation. It seems I'm only here when you need me to be. Which is more evidence toward my theory."

"Theory?" Cas has wandered to the crest of the hill, and his eyes are lost. Dean grabs his shoulder, forces him around. It's a familiar movement, and history echoes behind the gesture. "Cas, what's your theory?"

"I wonder if the cats and the monkeys would get along. I could train the monkeys to rescue the cats if they were stuck up a tree..." His eyes flicker upward to the treetop, then narrow.

"Cas!"

And Dean's hand is empty. Cas is gone. Dean curses and stomps hard, grinding a tuft of slimy grass into the ground.

* * *

Sam awakens to the smell of bacon and the sound of clanking metal. For a moment he thinks he's back at college and Jess has gotten up early to make him breakfast. It's an illusion he'd love to linger in, but he can't afford to, any more than he can afford to linger in bed.

Getting to his feet, he pads through the unfamiliar bedroom where Jody's put him up. There used to be wallpaper on these walls. The ghostly afterimages of trucks and trains still repeat every few feet where they used to sit. She's stripped it off. By herself, if Sam knows her. Jody's the type to pour her mourning into elbow grease.

He's a little surprised he knows that much about her. Then again, she's been around a lot more than he's really noticed so far. She was there when the Leviathans first made themselves known; she was there when Bobby discovered a way to hurt them. She helped Sam get Dean back when he was lost in time. Come to think of it, Jody Mills has been there _for_ Sam and Dean, and he doesn't think he's given her enough credit for that.

He fully intends to, when he gets downstairs. But she cuts him off at the pass.

"Eat," she demands, waving a spatula at him menacingly. Sam tries to speak, but she's crossed the kitchen and grabbed a notepad off the opposite counter by the time he's taken his first breath to speak. "So I was going over this, and I think that given the Leviathan problem we've got a couple of options. Making sure loose rogue elements don't organize is really a job for someone who's good at surveillance, and I know Bobby had a network of people who could do that, so maybe we can call one of them up. So that's one problem we could probably take off your radar, and stop gawking at me and _eat_ , Sam, I need your ears right now, not your mouth."

Sam scrambles for his fork. He's not sure whether to laugh or protest.

Jody turns and walks to the refrigerator, talking all the while. "As for where Crowley took this prophet kid, that one's tougher. You guys are able to summon him, right? So you could probably try that again. Maybe I could be there. I'm pretty good at interrogating suspects. They're not usually centuries-old demons, but everyone's got their baggage. Are you going to stare at that bacon or eat it?"

She has managed to pour herself a glass of orange juice and is actually waiting for Sam to bite down on his bacon-laden fork before she puts it to her lips. It's out of concern for her parched throat that Sam finally complies, and she sips, satisfied. Sam can't help feeling like he's being played pretty damn skillfully. He shakes his head reproachfully at her as he eats, but now he knows better than to try to interrupt.

"Which leaves finding your brother and his angel friend. Now there's two possibilities I can think of. One, they're dead, blown up or vaporized or melted by that Leviathan goo. Which I think is unlikely, not the least because it's Dean we're talking about, but also because you said the goo isn't toxic, right?" Sam shakes his head again, not dreaming of interrupting. "The other idea is, they've gone somewhere. Traveled to a different place. The question is, where, and how?"

Jody pauses, long enough that Sam knows he's now allowed to talk.

"You're talking about magic, right?" he says. "It would have to be some sort of spell. Like the banishing sigils that used to blow Cas halfway across the universe."

She stares at him a minute, incredulous, before dismissing the obvious joke. "It's the only thing I can think of. That happens, right? Blood and guts can cast spells."

Sam scratches his head. "I guess. We'll have to do some research."

"I figured." Jody finishes her cup of juice and hauls the carton back into the fridge, closing the door firmly. "In the meantime, let's figure out who we can get to keep an eye on the Leviathans, keep them from starting up again."

The bacon and eggs settle with delicious warmth and weight into Sam's stomach, and he relaxes, leaning back in his chair. "One person comes to mind," he says.

* * *

Castiel is back a moment later, arms folded in front of his chest, face screwed up in consternation. Dean jumps and then half-laughs. "You're gonna give me a friggin' coronary one of these days, dude. So what's it like being erased? Refreshing? You come back a new man?"

"That time I wasn't erased," Castiel says. "I was surveying the territory."

"And?"

"And there is nothing." Castiel sighs. "A thousand miles of forest in every direction. And beasts, asleep, nearly everywhere. I hadn't expected such lack of variety."

"Yeah?" Dean's eyes narrow. He wouldn't have thought to send Cas out to survey the territory. It's weird that Cas chose to go, that he even thought to go in his current mental state. "What _did_ you expect?"

"I--" Castiel's jaw snaps shut, and Dean sees the dangerous hurt in his eyes that usually prefaces a foray into the land of the non-sequitur.

He nips it in the bud. "Never mind. So you have no idea what we should do next?"

"I don't see the use in staying here," Castiel says. He touches the bark of the tree, traces a finger along the cracks that run down the trunk and stares at it curiously, as though he's examining a map. "It's possible that there are items in the forest that can be used for a spell. And we may be safer there."

"Safer?" Dean has to laugh. "How exactly does that work out?"

"The creatures sleep in the forest," Castiel says. "They must need shelter, or when the light came, they would have fallen asleep here in the clearing. And if they can find a safe haven in the forest..."

"...so can we," Dean finishes. "Fair enough. So you figure we should start moving now, see how the monsters hide and, when the sun goes down--"

"I don't think it's a sun--"

"Whatever. When it gets dark, we hide ourselves the same way. It's a good plan, Cas." Dean forces a smile, claps Cas on the back. Might as well give the guy credit when he does act sane, maybe he'll do more of it. "Let's get moving."

Dean's honestly surprised at how healthy he feels, how fit for traveling, as they start into the forest. Maybe the repairs made to his body went further than just closing up the tears on his skin. The ground moves quickly beneath his feet, and the trees don't trip or sting him as he moves through them. They lose sight of the clearing behind them after five or ten minutes of walking, wandering deeper into a forest so still that Dean can gauge Cas's closeness by the rasping sound of his breaths. Not even wind moves the leaves.

A half-hour passes before they encounter their first monster, or, rather, Cas does. He hisses a soft sound behind Dean, who looks back at a mound of leaves draping over a hill. Castiel puts a finger over his lips and draws back the curtain of foliage. It's not a hill but a cave, and curled inside it is a creature that's all folded legs, with a long face and a coiled spine. Its breaths rise and fall evenly, and the sharp razor blades of its talons shine with the scant reflected light. Cas lets the leaves drop over it again.

"This is how they all rest," Castiel whispers. "The leaves hide the signs of them from the other creatures."

"So we just need to find a cave," Dean says.

"And work some leaves in front of it to hide us. If we keep quiet, we should be safe from the predators."

"This isn't purgatory," Dean moans, "it's the Hunger Games."

"I'm not familiar with that one," Castiel says. "Are you talking about the one with the hippopotami?"

Dean doesn't bother to answer.

* * *

"No. No, there is nobody by that name here. I'm sorry, sir, you have the wrong number. Goodbye."

"Wait. Stop, don't hang up, Charlie."

"How many times do I have to say it? My name is Molly. Molly Walker. I don't know this Charlie person."

"Stop it. I know it's you. And don't hang up on me."

"Why are you doing this to me, Sam? You promised!"

"I know, I know, and I feel terrible. But we need you."

"Two weeks ago you didn't know me. Also, two weeks ago I had a job, and an apartment that didn't smell like recently deceased cat lady, and..."

"Charlie!"

"Sam, I just got settled, I met this girl and she's so cute, she looks like Katee Sackhoff, and we're so happy, and I don't want to fight, you promised me you wouldn't make me fight!"

"Charlie, listen. I don't want you to fight anything."

"You don't?"

"Well, I do, but not like... listen. Is there anything you can't hack?"

That gets her pride going. "Not so far."

"Good. Because I want you to hack... everything."

* * *

They travel for another half-hour before the scenery begins to change. The trees become sparser, and Dean thinks he can see a clearing ahead, past a thicket of underbrush that lies dense and unbroken for what looks like a hundred yards. "That looks like fun," he says, pulling out his knife again, ready to hack and slash his way through.

Castiel reaches forward and halts Dean's movement, then closes his hand over a wayward branch. It crumbles beneath his touch, and the rest of the bush withers entirely, leaving them another ten feet of clearance. “Damn," Dean mutters, and lets Castiel step ahead to cut away.

He continues until they've made their way to the last layer of underbrush. Dean's about to grin and congratulate him on the feat of landscaping, but when Castiel steps through to the clearing, his face falls. Dean follows his gaze. The area is rocky, barren, with its only feature a small hill, barely the height of a man. One side of the hill slopes up gradually, but the other is a sheer wall of rock. A single tree sits at its peak.

Dean's seen it before.

"Well, crap," he says. "We've been going in circles."

"Dean," Castiel says, but Dean's already retracing his steps.

They head back through the underbrush to the deeper part of the forest, Dean grumbling the whole way. He's no forest ranger, but Dean can't figure out how he managed to turn himself around after all that. Maybe purgatory's really small, and he's just managed to go around the world in eighty minutes. But that makes no sense, either. Not based on what Cas said about the endless forest.

Speaking of Cas, he may be trying to say something to Dean, but Dean can't afford to break his concentration and end up in another endless loop.

He starts cutting markers into trees to keep track of where he's been, just in case. Castiel follows quietly -- so completely so that Dean has to look back a few times to make sure he's still there and hasn't vanished. It's a relief, each time, to know Cas is still beside him. It breaks the tension, if just momentarily, and keeps Dean sane as he continues to cut through the forest.

Another clearing seems to be resolving on the horizon ahead. Dean checks the trees around him. No markers. Finally, new territory. He shoots a grin back at Castiel. "Looks like we're finally getting somewhere."

Castiel doesn't answer. His face is drawn tight in anxiety.

"Ain't you a ray of sunshine." Dean faces front again, picks up his pace. It isn't long before he's pushed his way through the trees and is close enough to get a glimpse of the clearing. It's about the same size as the first, similarly rocky, with--

\--with the same damn hill.

With the same damn tree on top.

"What the hell?" Dean wipes the sweat from his forehead and punches a tree trunk. "Screw this. Screw Purgatory. What the hell is the point of walking all damn day?"

Silence answers him. Dean turns sharply and scowls at Cas, who's standing expressionless a few feet back.

Each second of quiet irks Dean further. He snaps. "Well, c'mon, Chatty Cathy. What's going on with this?"

"I don't know for sure," Castiel says. His eyes dart to his feet, then to faraway trees, looking at everything but Dean's face. "I only have a theory."

The evasiveness irks Dean to no end. "Spit it out, then."

Castiel mumbles it, still looking away. “I think it's because of you."

Anger is the first response, but it takes a back seat to quickly sinking dread. “What does that mean?" Dean hears himself ask. But he knows. He doesn't get the details of how it happened, but it's so clear that he must have screwed things up. His head must be in a bad place. Or maybe he's just such a crappy leader that he shouldn't be trying to lead anyone anywhere. He drives a fist against a tree, and, oh, God, that was probably stupid, too, he'll get them killed if he makes more noise...

“Dean," Castiel says.

“Not now." His fault. Of course it was his fault. What in this whole mess hasn't been his fault? Since the moment he couldn't get Cas to give up the Leviathans. Since the moment he tried to leave the life. No, screw that, since the moment he brought Sam back, it was always his stupid attempts to be a leader, be the big man, the whole time not seeing the bigger picture--

“Dean!"

“What?" Dean snaps out of his world of self-flagellation long enough to glare at Cas.

Cas isn't glaring back. Cas is looking past him.

Oh, God.

It has two heads and no eyes, and its shoulders hunch with muscles that bulge under the skin as though threatening to burst through. Unlike the others, it's not torn up – this is the end of the day, not the end of the night, and it has been healing much like Dean did from his own injuries. All this Dean gets in a glance, and then he's running, dragging Cas with him into the clearing and across the wide stretch of black grass as the thing lumbers blindly after them, limbs flailing and swinging all around.

It pauses to listen for them, then swings its arms (and oh, God, there are more than two, those humps all along its back are shoulders, too, not just crude malformations) in a wide net. The arms extend to twice their length halfway through their sweep, and Castiel pulls Dean down to duck one clawed hand only to get caught himself on the next turn. Dean stifles a cry – better not to give the thing any clue that there are two of them – and watches helplessly as Castiel is swung like a rag doll in a loose circle.

Castiel tucks himself into a ball and rips free, and he manages the presence of mind to disappear and reappear at Dean's side, looking the worse for wear, pale, his coat ripped, fresh blood joining the old stains that dot the tattered garment. He glances at Dean, and the two of them come to a silent accord.

They creep backward, and Dean finds a rock underfoot. He picks it up and hurls it with all his might at the cliff face at the base of the hill. It connects with a noisy clatter, and the blind creature changes course, swinging its helicopter-rotor arms toward the hill. They catch on the stone. Bone breaks. The creature howls, and the surrounding forest stirs in response.

“Oh, God," Dean mutters. “It'll wake the whole world."

Castiel tugs on his arm. Together, they beat a hasty retreat into the trees.

They creep carefully into the depths of the woods, keeping their eyes peeled for attacks. Red eyes are starting to appear in the black tangles of bramble here and there, but the creature that attacked them is still reeling in the clearing. Just before Dean loses sight of it, he thinks he sees another monster attack it, and the sounds of tearing flesh and hungry howls are enough cover to shield Dean and Cas's escape.

A crevice between two overgrown trees catches Dean's eye. "Here," he mutters, nodding toward the gaping space between one trunk and the gnarled hollow of one root. It's just large enough for two men to hide, and Castiel nods in response. Dean tucks in first to the hole, then beckons to Castiel to join him.

He's pulled himself tight, hands wrapped around his knees, and when Castiel first bends to join him his heart skips dangerously at the sudden proximity. In this hole, there will barely be room for them to sit still. No room for stretching, certainly no personal space. Castiel will probably be perfectly at home. Dean steels himself to withstand the worst.

But when Cas's body is tucked next to his, Dean relaxes into the warmth of it; it's OK, really, just being here close to a friend. Dean will probably be able to sleep here, if the animal growls and violence of the night stay safely outside their refuge. Not that he can afford to sleep. They should probably trade off night watch duty.

"So," Dean says, leaning back until his head knocks against the tree root. "Because of me, huh?"

"Not in the way you're thinking." Castiel glances at him, then looks at the soil beneath them. Their feet have angled toward each other, despite Dean's best efforts to remain disentangled. It's just not happening, not in these close quarters. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to hear more about the monkeys instead? They tell such interesting stories."

Dean's ire rises. "No, Cas, I don't want to hear about the monkeys."

"Really?" Castiel tilts his head, and his face and those goddamn innocent wide blue eyes are way too close. Dean has to fight to keep from grimacing.

"Not right now," he relents. "I really want to know your theory, Cas. Then we can talk about monkeys, all right?"

"All right." Castiel sighs. "Dean, I think this place is shaped from your soul. Everything we encounter has to do with your state of mind. And I think we are stuck retreading the same ground because you have not found a way to change."

Dean would be angry, would protest, but he can't. Not after that. Not when he's nearly out of breath, terrified the slightest flare of emotion will set the monsters after them again. "Go on."

"What do the religious texts say about purgatory?" Castiel says. "It is the place where you are cleansed of your sins so you can enter heaven. By definition, you would need to change your soul to advance."

"So what, all of this is in my head?" Dean grabs his arm. It jerks Castiel in, tangles them harder together in the small space. Dean has to gulp hard to ignore the sudden heat. He's never stopped being surprised that Castiel's human-warm. He should either be white-hot or cold as a bar of steel.

"Not in your head. Shaped by your soul."

The words don't sink in. "Are you even the real Cas?" Castiel nods. "That doesn't make any sense. If you're the real Cas, shouldn't your soul-- or Grace, or whatever-- shouldn't that be shaping things too?"

"It is." Castiel looks away, and the darkness on his face scares Dean away from asking further.

Dean lets go and wills his body to relax. "Then how come we're in the same place?" he asks. "Or are you seeing different things than I am, and I just think we're here together?"

No answer. Castiel bites his lip.

The roots that form the latticework cage they're curled into shoot a bolt of cold across Dean's skin. He shivers. The light's almost gone now, and in the dimness he thinks he sees Castiel flicker. _Shit._ Dean doesn't think he can deal with Cas disappearing again. Not now that the sounds of crunching leaves and snapping branches tell him that the monsters of Purgatory are awakening and starting to hunt.

"All right. I'm gonna say this once, and if you quote me on it later, you're a dead man." Dean takes a deep breath, raises his hand in emphasis. "I need you. Right here, the whole time, 24-7, or however they count days in this place. You need to stay right here, and no more disappearing, because I need you. Got it?"

Castiel turns quickly. His face is so close, and his mouth is trembling. Dean can't tell whether he's trying to form words or on the edge of tears.

Either option scares the crap out of Dean. He tries to lean back, turn away, but his muscles won't listen to him. "Cas, don't--"

A howl sounds far too close. They both shiver with the sound of it -- at once mournful and savage, and thoroughly bone-chilling.

"Leaves," Castiel says. "We need the leaves."

"Right." Necessity has always spurred action easier than emotion, and Dean finds the strength to pull himself out of the hole, tiptoe up to one of the giant trees, and drag out his knife. The branch snaps easily after a few seconds of sawing, and the leaves drape in a thick black curtain off smaller limbs that pour from the branch as thick as pine needles. He steadies it atop the root so the leaves create a single, liquid, glossy sheet of darkness, then pushes it aside so he can duck behind it.

The pitchlike substance that makes up the leaves comes off on his fingers as he goes, and he frowns it them as he settles in next to Castiel. "God, I hate that stuff," he mutters.

"You should," Castiel says. "It's loathing itself."

Dean cocks his head. "I can never tell when you're being serious."

"I'm always serious, Dean," Castiel says airily. "It's the world that's absurd sometimes."

"Yeah, well.." Dean half-laughs. "I hear you there."

Footsteps rock their hiding place and make the curtain of leaves jump. Dean tenses. Castiel places a hand on his shoulder. "Rest," he says. "I'll wake you if there's danger."

Dean shakes his head. "Fair's fair. You told me your theory. Now I want to hear a story about the monkeys."

* * *

The day is waning and Sam's eyes have gone far past bleary. He rubs them and reaches for his coffee cup only to inhale air; he's drained it again, without noticing, and a cursory heft of the pot tells him they've run out again.

"I'll get more," Jody says, reaching over to get it. Sam gasps a little as she gets up; they've gotten very comfortable on their ends of the couch, balancing each other's weight, and the cushions rebound with the sudden loss of equilibrium. She's yawning as she walks into the kitchen, and Sam has to fight not to echo her yawn. The hours have dragged, and Sam had thought when he first reached for the coffee that he'd see moonlight outside the window. The sun's rays, red-orange as twilight falls, pierce his eyes, making him blink. _It's really only sunset?_

He rolls his head forward on his neck, then from side to side, and his joints pop with a series of crickles. Jess used to hate that sound, and even seven years later, he still looks around apprehensively, afraid he's just made someone in the vicinity cringe. Jody, on the other hand, has cracked her knuckles several times over the course of the day. Not that they're a direct comparison, but something about researching all day long with Jody has brought back memories of college libraries, of silent days and cheerfully refilled pots of coffee as the hours ticked away.

Something in him shudders in revulsion at even coming that close. Jess will never be compared to everybody, and the almost-life they had can never be recaptured. He's kept that as a sacred truth for too many years. Groaning, wanting to smack himself in the head for daring to go there, he flips a page into a list of blood spells involving a lunar eclipse.

He jumps up. "Holy crap!"

"Ow!" the answering yelp sounds from the kitchen, and Sam crosses to the doorway in alarm. Jody was replacing the coffeepot on the burner and has jumped at his exclamation, burning herself. She runs to the sink and turns on the cold water, looking over her shoulder the whole way. "What? Did you figure it out?"

Sam nods. "It was right there the whole time. "There's a spell. It has to be done during a lunar eclipse, and you need the blood of--"

"Of a Leviathan?" Jody winces as the water cools her burn.

"Not necessarily. Just someone who's from there." Sam crosses the room. "Jody, they're in purgatory."

"Purgatory?" She arches an eyebrow. "That exists?"

"It's where the Leviathans came from. The blood of the natives opens the door."

Jody turns off the water and flicks some droplets at Sam. "So it's a spell?" He nods. "Doesn't that mean someone has to have cast it, then? But who?"

They stare at each other for a few mute seconds, then say it in unison.

"Crowley."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding their way through purgatory means Dean and Castiel must face monsters and an endless landscape of darkness, but it also means they must navigate the wilds of their own troubled souls. Meanwhile, Sam seeks out an ally in his quest to bring his brother home and finds he has his own unpleasant truths to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/profile)[**akadougal**](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/) for excellent beta work and being a cheerleader throughout! Thanks to the DCBB mods for putting together such a wonderful project. And really, extra super-special thanks to my artist, [](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/)**scarletscarlet** , who in addition to the art has helped with monster design, plot tweaks, and supplementary beta duties, and has really been a true partner in making this story happen. I am so grateful.

The flame hits the pan and sparks. The smell of incense fills the air, and Sam stifles a cough. It's not exactly lavender, the potent and rare stuff they need to burn in order to capture a demon's attention, and every time it makes him feel a little sicker. Maybe that's just because summoning demons always smacks of something he'll regret later.

"Kinda surprised," Jody said to him earlier. "I mean, king of Hell, powers beyond mortal man, et cetera, et cetera, and you can just burn some stinky stuff up and he'll come mewling?"

"It's a weird world," Sam says. "Last year Dean and I figured out a way to summon angels. Although I really don't think it's a summoning with them. More like a knock on the door. For whatever reason, they just always showed up."

"Maybe that's why they always show," Jody said. "To keep you from realizing that they don't have to."

The thought chills Sam as he stands and waits, expecting the air to fill with portly demon and the stench of sulfur any minute now. That's the other part of demon summoning that makes him sick -- after they're gone, someone's got to clean up the mess they make. Sulfur deposits get in the grout between the kitchen tiles and trail along the floorboards... it's pretty gross. Having the Borax around in case of Leviathan attack has actually made things easier lately.

Still no Crowley. Jody glances at Sam. His stomach drops. Having her look at him with doubt in her eyes is making him feel even worse than usual. No good reason why.

"Bloody--"

A crash, coming on top of the words. Then several more eminently British curses.

The sound's coming from upstairs, a floor above the devil's trap they've scrawled on the ceiling. Sam and Jody race upstairs and open the bathroom door to discover Crowley wrestling with a shower curtain.

"Slimy bastard--" he mutters, one arm sticking out and yanking until the whole thing comes off. Crowley's signature dark suit is soaking wet. "Bugger it---" He shakes himself like a wet dog, then catches Sam's eye and sneers. " _Bollocks_."

Jody snorts a laugh. Crowley's gaze shifts to her. "Oh, that's just great. You've brought spectators."

"Sorry," Jody says. "I guess I expected more."

"It's your bloody fault for summoning me right beneath a loo!" Crowley rages. Jody rolls her eyes. Sam cracks a smile for the first time since the ritual began. "And why am I not surprised to see you again, Winchester? Stunned it took you this long, in fact. I was even able to relax, have a little tea and torture break with our mutual friend Kevin."

This snaps the smile off Sam's face. "What do you want with him, Crowley?"

Crowley grabs a towel off the rack and dabs at his face delicately. "That's for me to know and for you hopefully to not find out until it's far too late." Sam glowers. "Come off it, Baby Huey. It's not as if you'd be able to pry that information out of me, not unless I decide to provide it. Besides, you're not interested in our prophet friend. Not nearly as interested in getting Grumpy and Dopey back."

"You opened the door, didn't you? You sent them to Purgatory."

"Indeed." Crowley points a finger. "And you, good sir, should be thanking me."

"For what?"

"Sam, Sam." Crowley sits on the rim of the tub and crosses his legs, leaning forward as though imparting a confidence. "'You've already run the gauntlet. You've picked up the pieces of your soul and found what... how should we say it? Holistic wellness. Unfortunately, neither of them have. They're broken, both of them, and I don't care to deal with broken people."

Sam's eyes have narrowed. Crowley's words are chiming a low bell of truth that makes him very uncomfortable. "And?"

"And, considering the likelihood that I _will,_ eventually, have to deal with them again, I've sent them on an all-expenses-paid vacation to the best holistic rehab spot I know. Trust me, when you get them back, you are going to thank me."

"So we _can_ get them back."

Crowley snorts. "Of course. You know the spell. A lunar eclipse, a bit of virgin blood, a bit of Purgatory native blood, and voila. The door opens. Whether they make it through is another question. Assuming, of course, that they're still alive."

"The next lunar eclipse won't be for months," Sam says.

"Then I suppose you'll be cooling your heels for a while."

"There has to be another way."

Crowley shrugs. "Good luck finding it."

"Wait a second," Jody says, and both Sam and Crowley turn and stare at her.

She goes on, undaunted. "Virgin blood? Where-- how?"

Sam makes a face. Crowley chuckles. "There are, my dear Sheriff, some questions that are really better left unanswered."

And he blinks out of existence.

Sam thunders back down the stairs, hollering the whole time about how the Devil's Trap was set and he shouldn't have been able to escape-- and then he sees it, and his face falls.

Jody is a few steps behind. She frowns up at the ceiling, where a splotch is growing moment by moment, its dark stain wiping out the red paint. "That's just great. He's gone _and_ I'm gonna have water damage."

Sam sighs. "I'll go close the pipe."

* * *

Worst thing about Purgatory so far? No alcohol.

They're moving again, another long night done and the light above them dim but constant when they look up through the treetops. Dean doesn't remember how many days it's been, but it could equally well have been two or seven. Enough that they know their job, from moment to moment, is to go as deep into the forest as they can and look for something, anything, that signals the terrain is changing. At night, they curl up together in any number of makeshift shelters, hidden from the night's horrors by a curtain of leaves, and then creep forward again when the light starts to shine through. Castiel keeps saying the landscape will change when Dean's ready for it to change, so Dean's doing his level best to be patient and not expect anything. It's a paradoxical problem -- how the hell can he not expect change when the whole point of not expecting it is to bring change?

He tries to explain this to Castiel, who says readily and embarrassingly, "That's very much like love."

"What?" Dean nearly trips over an outcropping they know for sure hides a monster's tail. Steadying himself, double-checking that they haven't just woken a literal sleeping giant, he frowns at Castiel. "What the hell do you know about love?"

"Not much," Castiel admits. "But I do know that it's been often said that love finds you when you are least expecting it. Which leads many people, I think, to attempt not to expect it, while in their heart of hearts always looking around for it."

"That's bull. If that's the case I should’ve been madly in love a thousand times over, because I ain't never looked for it."

"Not looking for it is only part of the equation," Castiel says. "The other half is loving yourself."

"Now _that_ I'm good at," Dean says with a wink.

The joke is lost on Castiel. "I have doubts, though," he says, matter-of-factly, and pauses to pull a fallen tree from their path. "I've read that you cannot be loved by another if you do not love yourself, but I think it's very possible to love someone who doesn't love himself. Tragic, but possible."

He's paused, staring down at his own feet. The tree is only half-cleared.

Dean coughs. "Cas."

"Yes." Castiel jolts back into motion again. "Apologies."

Yeah. Dean could really use a drink right about now. Maybe if he doesn't expect it, Purgatory will manifest a river of beer for him. And now that he's thought of it, he's probably screwed himself out of ever getting it. Damn paradoxes.

* * *

They're into their fourth day of research and dead ends when Sam stops in mid-keystroke and slaps himself on the forehead abruptly. "Oh, God. How stupid could I be?"

Jody glances over. "Breakthrough?"

"You could say that. I checked to see when the next eclipse was, but I didn't check to see the last one."

"Well, no, because it was last week." Jody wrinkled her nose. "Wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "But there wasn't supposed to be."

"What?"

Jody rose from her seat and came to stand behind Sam and gaze at his laptop screen. "Oh, yeah," she murmured, "I remember hearing about that. Scientists saying it had to be an oddity in the cloud formation or something. I didn't think it meant anything." She pauses. "What _does_ it mean?"

"It means it wasn't a natural eclipse," Sam says. "Somebody made it happen."

"Crowley? Can he do that?"

"I didn't think so," Sam says, leaning back. "But now that I think about it -- why not? The guy could remake hell, pull people in and out-- of course."

"So what?" She leans on his chair, hand wedged in near his shoulder. A little close for comfort, and he's bristling only partly from her words. "That doesn't get us any closer to getting an eclipse of our very own. Unless you think Crowley will be glad to pull another one up, just to help us out."

"You have a point." Sam turns in his seat to raise an eyebrow at her. "But he's reasonable, for a demon. Maybe he'll bargain. We just need a bargaining chip."

"And what could we possibly do that would make Crowley want to help us?"

"We could just ask."

She looks down at him. Her fingers drum against his shoulder.

Sam shrugs. "No, it didn't seem like a good idea to me, either."

Her hand stills, and she runs it over his shoulder briefly, a comforting gesture. "We'll think of something, Sam. At least we've got more of an idea what to do now than we did before. Right?"

He doesn't have an answer -- he just sits, pondering. The answer ought to be there, somewhere in the wealth of experience and knowledge he's carried through life and death and life again. There has to be something Crowley wants. But Sam just remembers Crowley's triumphant expression when Dean disappeared, and that sickening realization that once again, the demons had him right where they wanted him. Just like when he tried and failed so many times to sell his soul to bring Dean back from the dead. He can never stop being their pawn.

"Don't," she entreats. "Wherever it is you're going right now, don't go there. I'm right here, Sam. Stay with me."

Her grip is warm. Sam dares to think of a possibility he hasn't thought of before. He rises; she comes with him, hands still on his arms and sliding closer to his shoulders.

"I'm right here," she says again. Her head tilts upward. Her mouth is close, and her eyes shine with expectation. It’s tempting. Tempting to forget, to lower his head and close his eyes. He could drown himself in her warmth, just for a while, and in the end there would be no regrets, no consequences. And Jody wants the same thing. He can tell by the way her hands tighten on his shoulders. There’s no reason he shouldn’t.

He shakes his head and steps away. "No."

"I'm not asking for anything," she says. "Not a relationship, no strings."

"I know." He gazes at her mournfully. "It's just..."

"What?"

"This is a bad time."

"Because of Bobby?"

"No, it's me... Women I'm with... they don't last too long."

"Maybe you haven't met the right woman yet. Admit it, Sam, I'm tougher than most." She tries to smile. "We make a pretty good team at this. Maybe, if worse comes to worst, I could... I mean, we could..." She shakes her head. "I don't know what I'm talking about. Never mind."

"Worse comes to..." Sam echoes her, then chokes on the meaning of the words. He coughs hard. "Don't. Dean's coming back. We're getting him back."

"Of course we are." Her shoulders stiffen, and she turns her back on him, paces the length of the room and folds her arms over her chest. "And I guess when we do, I'll just go back to being the sheriff. And you'll get in your car and leave me behind. Unless you need me for a case, of course."

"What do you want me to do?" Sam gets to his feet and crosses the room to meet her. She doesn't turn, so his hand falls to her arm to try to prompt her forward. She shakes it away. "Jody, what do you want me to say?"

"Nothing," she snaps. "Nothing. I know that's the way it is, I can't ask you to change. I just..."

"What?"

She shakes her head. "I just don't know where that leaves me."

"Where _should_ it leave you?"

"In a different place than when I started." Now Jody turns, and there's more anger in her face than he was expecting. He takes a step back. "I don't think you boys know just what you do to people when you show up at their door, save them from monsters and then jet away all self-satisfied and ready to move on to the next case. After a while, don't you forget their names? All the people they've saved. But they never forget you. The world's a different place after the Winchesters have been in it, but you seem to think people can meet you two and just stay the same. That's not how it works. You change people."

"Jody." The accusation in her face burns him. He searches for words in answer, but he has none.

"And I still don't get why you're special. You never have to change. You just keep going on, the two of you against the world, never growing up, never learning."

"That's not fair, and you know it."

Jody nods. "I do. But it's still true. You know, you've taken everything from me, you and Bobby and Dean and the things you've led my way. The things you made me see. That's changed me, and it's made me care about your world. About you. It's made me think, maybe it's time I took up a gun and I tried to help."

"You want to be a hunter?" He frowns. "Jody, it's no life."

"It's good enough for you."

"I wouldn't wish this job on anyone," Sam says. "It's long hours, it's literally no pay, and it's lonely."

"It wouldn't be if I were hunting with you."

Sam starts. Jody's cheeks have filled with color, and there's no mistaking the sudden downward dart of her eyes. The possibility he'd seen earlier is now a stark fact.

"Jody," he starts, but she shakes her head.

"Is it so wrong of me to want?" she asks. "I want to get Dean back as much as you do, Sam, but once he's back, I'm going to be that speck getting smaller in your rear view mirror. Who wants to be that?"

He doesn't have an answer. For her, for Crowley, or for Dean. He steps back a few paces, shaking his head back and forth, as though he could jar something loose in the process. But nothing comes, and he stumbles out of the room, then out the door into the night.

* * *

"So what's up with the board game fetish?" Dean asks after a half-day's worth of fruitless tromping. He's not sure what brings it up, but it's definitely a question he's been waiting to ask.

"What do you mean?" God, it drives him crazy when Castiel does that dewy-eyed innocent thing. Cas might not understand just how things work sometimes, but he ain't innocent. Never will be.

"Twister. Sorry. Uno. You keep bringing up dumb-ass board games. What's going on with it?"

"What's wrong with board games?" Now Cas looks vaguely hurt. That's just great. The one thing Dean needs, to feel guilty for even bringing it up.

"It's weird."

"Is it?" Like he's challenging the assumption. Dean bristles.

"Hell, yeah, it is. Stuff's for kids, Cas. The real world doesn't start at the start and work on rolled dice."

"Doesn't it?" And now Cas is definitely challenging him. Dean stops in his tracks, looks over his shoulder at Castiel and scowls.

"So, what? You get some sort of cosmic revelation out of moving pieces on a board? Or are you still playing God under that pacifist shell you've been sporting lately? Still getting off on pushing us around?"

The reaction is instantaneous. Castiel's eyes hollow out, and he steps back a few paces, as though he's been struck.

"Sorry," Dean says, waving a hand, trying to brush it off. "I just want to understand you, man. So you like board games. Nothing wrong with that. Wondering why, that's all."

Castiel recovers slowly, the shocked look fading from his face in increments. Dean watches him carefully, not daring to say anything or move until he's sure Cas is back to normal. When the coast is clear, he tromps ahead a few paces, pauses, waits for Cas to catch up. "Well?" he says, trying to sound nonchalant. "What is it about the games? You gonna tell me?"

"I don't think you'd understand," Castiel replies, his voice even and smooth.

"Try me."

Castiel's eyes settle on his. "Very well." For a moment the gaze bores into Dean, and it reminds him of a million other times they stared each other down, wars of wills and vain struggles to understand each other. Dean would like to think that right now, Cas is incomprehensible because he's gone out of his mind, but truth is, he's never been any more transparent than he is now. Dean has never quite known what to make of him.

"Imagine," Castiel says quietly, "that you have been playing a game for a long time. Weeks. Years. Every day, you count on it. No matter what else happens, you'll come back to that board and you'll make your move. That's how you know that you still exist. Because you are needed to make that daily move, so you will always come back to it. It's your promise to the world."

"Cas," Dean starts, but he doesn't have any words to follow it. Castiel's face is gaunt and his eyes are strangely hollow. Maybe it's a trick of the dying light.

"And then, one day, you think you see victory in sight. You've discovered a strategy, a plan that will give you the upper hand. But you're torn. On the one hand, you've been looking for this victory for years. But once you've won... once the game is over... what will be left? What will you do? You could start a new game, perhaps, but it wouldn't be the same. It's this game, this endless battle, that's keeping you going. So you decide, though you could end it all in a few more moves, to ignore your chance. You'd rather keep playing, day in and day out, so long as this game never ends."

Something akin to panic is rising up in Dean's throat. "I don't get it," he says, and his voice cracks.

"So you return home to make your move," Castiel says. "And you find the board upended. The pieces on the floor, the dice scattered. Your opponent has seen what you could have done, and he couldn't handle it. So frustrated with the prospect of defeat, so angry at himself for playing so poorly, that he destroys the game you were living for. Even though you had no intention of making the move. What do you do, Dean? How do you live after that?"

Dean hears himself swallow. Other than that, he can't make a sound. His heart is banging in a silent, constant hammer against his ribs.

Castiel grins widely and gives a short, barking laugh. Dean jumps.

"It's just a game!" he says. "Even if your opponent is a spoilsport, it's still just a game. Don't look so worried!"

He looks up at the sky, notes the waning light, and wanders away to search for a suitable hiding place for the night. Dean watches him go, trying hard to laugh. But nothing about what Castiel just said sounded anything like a joke.

* * *

The Impala is still half-wrecked, glass broken and doors dented, but she drives, and Sam might not be Dean but he still feels free and at home behind her wheel. Driving with Dean somewhere else, in a different world, still tastes bitter to him, though. It reminds him too much of when Dean was in hell and Sam himself was consumed with pain and revenge. The town around him seems bitter and distant and aloof, and he revs the engine too quickly, makes her growl as she peels down the street and makes a wide turn around a corner. Dean can make her handle like a cat. Sam's not quite as good. But that turn was sloppy, wide. Obvious. Sam should know better.

He should know better, after all this time. So why the hell is he so damn angry now?

Everything Jody said is true. Sam and Dean do think they're special little snowflakes. They do more for each other than is fair or natural. And they leave the rest of the world touched and jet away here in this magical car of theirs like it's a spaceship, off to another planet to change someone else's life. This isn't Star Trek. The people they meet aren't extras. They don't put away their backstories and costumes after a single episode and never live another day.

But Sam knows that. He respects that. Doesn't he?

His anger flares at her briefly. She's the one who demanded something of him. She wanted him. She broke that compact they'd had, the friends-and-allies barriers they'd built. That should have been sacred ground, and she tried to get too close. He has to push her away now. It's the only way to keep working, because he still needs her help.

(Does he? Could he go on without her from now on, see about Crowley and the spell and the gate to Purgatory all by himself? He could. But he doesn't want to, and that scares him a lot, too.)

Concentrate on the job. Concentrate on Crowley. They need to get him to cooperate. But what can they possibly give Crowley that he doesn't already have? He's got Meg. He's got Kevin. God knows why, but--

"That's it."

"What's it?" says a drunkard who's wandering by.

Sam smiles. "Kevin."

* * *

Dean is sawing at a branch to bring down a curtain of black leaves for camouflage. Castiel has found a pile of rocks and rotting fallen trees that create a cave, this one more spacious than the last. There will be room in there to lie down, to give each other space. Which, given the awkward state of things, is probably for the best. Castiel hasn't spoken in several minutes, and though Dean's tried to summon words, he can't quite bring himself to break the silence.

He's been mulling the story over in his mind, trying to understand what sort of parable Castiel was trying to narrate. Is it a story about him? About the apocalypse? Something about it reminds him of the angels, of their dumb-ass plan to cause the end of the world and how Castiel decided, after a little persuasion, that it wasn't worth the body count. But then there were parts of it where Dean felt like he was being accused of something. Was he the cranky opponent who had upended Cas's board? But that didn't make sense either. It's not like he had stopped Cas from doing anything. Tried, sure. But he hadn't been able to stop him. In the end, it was Cas who had to stop himself, and not quite in time.

Maybe it was just an aimless story. Maybe Cas is even more bonkers than Dean first thought.

He brings the leaves over, and Castiel takes them without a word, drapes them over the entrance to the makeshift cave. It's not enough; Dean will have to cut another branch. Sighing, he treks a few paces over to the nearest tree. His arms ache, and he's craving food -- he's not hungry, exactly, but it's been so long since he's had anything in his mouth, and it's dry and bitter-tasting. He dreams of water.

It's not fair. There's no solution to the puzzle that's Purgatory. They've survived for days, or maybe it's weeks, without hunger, huddling in the night from endless horrors, but the scenery hasn't changed. Nothing's changed. What's the point of just surviving? Dean's not quite wishing for death yet, but he's starting to want to stay out nights, just to get his adrenaline peaking again, to feel like there's some challenge and some danger beyond the endless grind. He caught himself staring at the rising and falling breaths of a sleeping creature earlier in the day, wondering what would happen if he stabbed it in its sleep. Not that his knife would do more than slice the skin, but would it awaken? Would it attack? And if Dean survived the attack, would he finally see something change?

But then again, more than likely he wouldn't survive. And that sends a sick thrill through him too.

Talk about upending the board.

"Maybe I kind of get it," he says as the second branch comes down, sticky-black and heavy, in his hands. "About the board games. I mean, you make a move in a game and you get somewhere, right? You draw a card and something good happens or something bad happens. You deal with it." He glances at Castiel's face; mild interest there, some approval. It's more heartening than he expected it to be. "But the world, the real world, you just keep going. I mean, there's karma or whatever, but that's just in the mind, right? People want there to be karma, so they see it where it isn't. Trying to make a game out of real life."

Castiel smiles, barely, the sort of half-smile that Dean remembers from before the days when he learned to grin and laugh like a maniac. That, too, is heartening.

"Makes you wonder how much we make up just to keep going," he says. "I mean, love? Family? Friends? It's all random, right? It's chance. You live, so you live. There's no winning or losing. Just... going on."

He's proud of himself for coming to this conclusion, depressing though it is, and now he's the one grinning like a maniac -- a grin that shakes right off when Castiel seizes him by both arms, scowling. "Don't," he warns.

Dean tries to wrest out of his grasp. The way Castiel's eyes have focused on him hurts, like a laser is melting his skin. "Don't what?"

"Don't take it too far. Don't think that. My Father had a plan, has a plan for all of us. It's not chance, it's not random."

"It's not?"

Castiel's grip is crushing him. His arms will bruise. "How can you, of all people, say that? Your destiny was ordained from the beginning of time, Dean. You and your brother, you were chosen for a reason."

"And we took that reason and tossed it out the window, didn't we?" Now Dean's defensive, feeling a little maniacal himself. "You were there, Cas, you were a part of it. Without the end of the world, what's the point of us?"

"Dean." Desperation in his voice.

"Seriously. What's the point? We lose people we love--" His voice cracks. "So what's the point of loving them? Bobby just-- and you--"

"I'm not," Castiel starts, but the fuse has already run out, and Dean's no longer in control of it.

"Why'd it have to be you who got brought back?" he says. "Why couldn't it be Bobby? Bobby's... Bobby was easy. He was like my father. I don't even know what you are. You piss me off and you make no sense and half the time I don't even like you, and you're always coming back. Why? How the hell is that fair? Why weren't _you_ the one who stayed dead?"

There it is, the bridge crossed, and he pulls back, both excited and terrified to see Castiel's reaction. The glimpse he gets of Castiel's face -- sorrowful, pale, a low flame sparking in his eyes -- brings his anger crashing down into fear, and he feels as though he's sinking through quicksand, terrified he's landed a blow that cannot be soothed. It's like he's seeing a boulder fall toward him, counting in slow-motion seconds the moment until he feels its impact.

What he feels instead is a drop of water.

And then another. And then a dozen of them on the crown of his head. He looks up, and they continue, splashing onto his face and running down across his chin and ears to his neck.

"It's raining?" he says.

Castiel looks upward too, squints into the sudden downpour. "It would appear so."

Everything they've been talking about is lost in the surprise. Dean brushes water over his face, tries to shake himself dry, but it's coming down faster now, hard as a summer thunderstorm.

"How can it rain in Purgatory?" Dean says. He sticks out his tongue, expecting it to be bitter, corrosive. But it just feels and tastes like water. "How can there be weather in purgatory? It's just... monsters and trees, there's no atmosphere or..."

Castiel shakes his head. Dean finds himself watching an errant drop of rain hanging precariously at the tip of his nose. "Earth, and Heaven, and Hell, and Purgatory... they are all what we make of them," he says, and somehow it makes sense.

Dean looks up, watches the rain fall from that invisible vanishing point. The drops land fat and cold on his face, and he shivers, drawing his arms tight around himself. He's always liked the rain, liked thunder. Sunshine seemed a fake facade -- the atmosphere's real purpose was to roil, to sow chaos and flood the world with anger and sorrow. But Cas has said this is a reflection of his soul.... and for the first time, perhaps, he entertains the thought that instead of his soul darkening because of the reality of the world, maybe the world darkens because that's what his soul chooses to see.

The notion just makes him sadder, and a coldness is creeping through his body now, like he's being embraced by the grip of death. Castiel's turned his back, and Dean misses the sight of his face. It's a weird nostalgia, and though they're standing just feet apart, Dean thinks he sees a gulf widening between them, pulling Castiel further and further away.

He tries to raise his hand, but his arm goes limp. He looks down.

That's when he realizes the grip is real.

His ankles are wrapped in something awful and glistening. A tendril, or tentacle of some kind. And as he watches, more slither out behind it. They wrap around his legs, tangle upward like climbing ivy, faster than he can pull away. He cries out, and his voice chokes. Castiel turns a moment before the tentacles yank hard and Dean is pulled off his feet.

His jaw rattles as it slams into the ground, lower teeth driving up into his skull. Pain shoots through him, piercing in his skull and raw in his gut. A creeping numbness is starting to overtake his legs, and he can't kick, can't fight his way free. He claws the ground, shouting, reaching out as he's dragged back and away from Castiel, who shouts and struggles across the grass toward him. But then he's gone, scenery disappearing faster than Cas can make it up, and Dean's so deep in the brush that he can barely see a foot in front of his face. God knows how close or far Cas is now. Dean paws the ground, takes fistfuls of dirt. His arms are starting to numb, too. There's something cold and horrible making its way through his veins. All this, and the rain continues, battering down on his head and back and face, when he turns it up toward the sky -- and he aches everywhere he's not numb or stinging. No part of him feels untouched.

He can still kind of feel his hands, and he slams them down into the dirt, forcing his body to wrench around in a miserable twist. Gotta face this thing, see what's got him. It's got tentacles, or pincers, or something that's at once keeping him held and leeching slow poison into his system, and until he knows what he's got no idea how to get free. With a final push and twist, he finally rolls onto his back.

"Oh, you ugly son of a bitch," he mutters through tingling lips.

Its eyes are beady, its skin a mess of orange-brown rotting scales. But the true horror is its mouth, its gaping, awful mouth that breathes foul exhalations onto him every other moment. Brimming over its lower lip is a teeming mass of tongues, long and squirming, and _they're_ what's holding him down -- wrapped around his legs, poisoned saliva oozing into his skin and spreading numbness through his limbs.

"I don't French kiss on the first date," he mumbles, but the words are barely distinct. His vision's getting blurry. He tries to ease backward, but the tongues tighten around his ankles, pulling him an inch closer for every moment he tries to escape. The more he tries, the closer he gets, and the paralysis makes every try more fruitless.

A sense of inevitability settles over him, and he leans back, relaxing into the numbness that suffuses his whole body. Why not just close his eyes? Why not just accept that he'll be torn into that awful mouth, swallowed up in darkness and torn apart? He can't move. There's no use in fighting it. He might as well try to stop the rain from falling.

The sound comes to his ears as though from far away, and his leg flying free is a surprise to him -- he sees it flying above his head like it's someone else's, doesn't realize he's been continuously trying to kick it up even after he thought he had given up. The next sound is sharper, cleaner, and now his legs are free, the numbness fading from them fast enough that he's able, after a groaning moment, to scramble backward and sit up.

Castiel's got Dean's knife, and it lashes out again and again to cut more slithering tongues as he faces down the creature, stance ready and solid. Dizzied, Dean leans against a tree stump and watches the battle, helpless. The tongues keep sliding out, and Dean wants to shout and warn him, but Castiel's faster, more precise than he's been for a long time, and he doesn't miss a one. When the final tongue is severed, the strips of flesh and muscle piling up around his feet in a swarm, the monster howls from its injured mouth and starts to retreat, and Castiel looks over his shoulder at Dean.

There's no insanity in his face. He's pure warrior. As the rain beats down over his head, matting his hair down, the last vestiges of his mask seem to drain away. Dean gets the feeling that Castiel's all there, for the first time in far too long. It makes his heart leap.

Dean tries to get up, but his knees buckle almost immediately. Castiel runs toward him, stowing the knife as he moves, and catches Dean in his arms. "We have to go," he says. "There will be others."

"Yeah," Dean mumbles. His mouth feels heavy and dull, and he figures this is how people must feel when they've spent three hours in a dentist's chair. "Problem is... can't walk." The consonants buzz through his lips funnily.

Castiel's arm goes around him, fingers cinching on his shoulder, and Dean finds himself dragged up. It brings back a memory, another time Castiel had to carry him to safety. But that time his injuries had come at Castiel's own hand and Dean had remained so resistant that Castiel had to put him to sleep in order to haul him home. This time Dean finds himself leaning in, head bobbing onto Castiel's shoulder. Maybe he's just too weak not to trust him. But seeing him like that, flame in his eyes, brings back another memory -- one when those eyes blazed into his and Castiel drew his own blood, put his faith completely in Dean -- and this feels the same. Castiel's undoubtedly on his side now.

It's nice.

He lets Castiel carry him back to the hiding place they'd discovered, lets himself be deposited like a doll inside before Castiel stands again to draw the leaves over the enclosure. Feeling is returning quicker than it would in the human world -- his body heals quickly here, like it did in hell -- but he still feels weak, dizzied. He leans against the wall of the hiding place, groaning, and waits for Castiel to climb in beside him.

"So," Dean says. "Rain."

He sits for another half-minute and gazes at it. The light's dimming. Soon they'll be in near-complete darkness.

"We're waiting and waiting for the scenery to change, and when it does, it's rain." He sighs and hangs his head. "Why's everything always gotta change for the worse?"

He can feel Castiel's gaze on him, but he sees no reason to meet it. There's nothing new there, either, just more pain.

"Nobody to blame but myself, I guess," he goes on, fingers digging into the soft ground. "Place is based on my soul, after all"

"You think it was your fault?"

There's real surprise in Castiel's voice, and Dean does turn this time, angles his face toward Castiel's. "You don't?"

"I--" Castiel licks his lips nervously. "I thought it was mine."

"Yours?" Dean's head swims. "How--"

And then it's clear. Dean sees it, all at once, like the curtain of black leaves has been swept away and he's found daylight after an endless Purgatory night. He's been looking at Cas all wrong, he's been talking about Cas as a thing, as a tool, and he's not -- he's a person, every bit as much a person as Dean is, and a moment ago Dean told him he wished he were still dead.

"Cas." Dean touches Castiel's arm and stares at him. "I'm sorry for what I said. I'm happy you're alive. Really."

Forced to face him, Castiel swallows and tries to avert his gaze. It's impossible; something in him won't allow it, and he ends up staring helplessly into Dean's eyes. "I'm not glad," he says. "I deserve... I deserve to die for what I've done. I want to die for what I've done, and I can't. I have to keep living--" He swallows. "No, I don't deserve to die. Living is my punishment. I don't deserve the mercy of being dead."

They're horrific words, but Dean can't feel horror. "I've felt the same way," he says.

"You understand, then," Castiel says, and Dean can feel his eyes, wary and bright. "Why I'm afraid to discuss it. Why I can't-- why I'd rather--"

"Follow the bees, yeah, I know." Dean looks up, meets Castiel's eyes. The sheer amount of pain there makes him want to flinch. "But Cas, that's the point. You have to do shit like that, or you'll never get past it. You want to keep living just running away from it all?"

"You may be right." Castiel shifts awkwardly in his crouch, his hands folding and unfolding in his lap. "But I have no home left, Dean. My garrison is dead. My friends--"

He pauses. Dean peers at him. "Go on."

"I've driven my friends away." Castiel's voice lowers to a whisper. "I've done unforgivable things. I can't think about them, I can't..."

Dean's silent. He feels as though he's watching a coil of wire unwind. As he watches, Castiel doubles over, and hides his head in his hands.

"I can't make it stop hurting," he says. "The whole world means nothing, it's all nonsense. That's the point. Monkey feces and cat penises and... it's ridiculous, but I can't stop hurting over what I've done to you and Sam. How does that make any sense?"

Dean inches closer and slings his arm around Castiel's shoulder. Castiel stills, stiffening in Dean's grasp.

"It doesn't," Dean says.

"Then why--"

"Because people don't make any sense," Dean says. "None of it does. Why we love, who we love, it's all-- it's all just a mess."

Castiel starts to speak, then stops. His jaw locks, and he stares at the place where his shoulder tucks into Dean's arm like he could dissolve the contact, or seal them there forever. Dean's not sure which he wants.

"What?" Dean prods. God, he wishes he understood Cas a little better. Moments like this he thinks he really ought to know just what's going through his mind, and he's drawing a blank.

Thankfully, Castiel breaks his silence. "You misunderstand," he says softly. "The rest of the world makes no sense. But how I feel about you has always been abundantly clear."

Dean opens his mouth to speak without a single clue what he'll say. The breath is traveling up and through his mouth when a shock of warmth stops him -- Castiel's hand on his jaw, fingertips brushing his cheek. To stop him? Dean wavers, knowing only that Castiel's staring at him with intensity. It brings him to silence, and he waits, uneasy, for whatever Castiel is about to say.

Castiel kisses him instead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding their way through purgatory means Dean and Castiel must face monsters and an endless landscape of darkness, but it also means they must navigate the wilds of their own troubled souls. Meanwhile, Sam seeks out an ally in his quest to bring his brother home and finds he has his own unpleasant truths to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/profile)[**akadougal**](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/) for excellent beta work and being a cheerleader throughout! Thanks to the DCBB mods for putting together such a wonderful project. And really, extra super-special thanks to my artist, [](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/)**scarletscarlet** , who in addition to the art has helped with monster design, plot tweaks, and supplementary beta duties, and has really been a true partner in making this story happen. I am so grateful.

Castiel's mouth is on his, and Dean feels as though a rainbow is bursting bright colors through him, like he's a prism. He lunges forward, wraps his arms around Castiel and holds him tight.

The kiss, oh, God, the kiss is lingering, long and wet and perfect, and Dean knows there are a million things he should be doing instead of this. Running and screaming, maybe. Protesting. Finding a way home. But Cas feels so fucking perfect in his arms, and there's low music playing in his gut, and he can't - he can't stop, not for anything, not for all the darkness in Purgatory.

Castiel's mouth pulls at his, the soft surface of his lips somehow insistent and determined, and when Castiel's tongue finds its way into Dean's mouth Dean lets him, because it belongs there, because all this is simultaneously intense and natural, because each inch they squirm closer to each other Dean feels closer and closer to home.

Is he allowed to do this? To feel this, when Sam is somewhere above, worrying or despairing? It doesn't seem right.

"It's not right." The words break, and his mouth breaks from Castiel's, pushing him away. "This isn't right. I shouldn't -- damn it!" Because his gut is still churning in bright colors and Castiel's lips are a dim red glow in the darkness and everything Dean loves about sex, the mindlessness and the ability to let go and just feel good, is right there for the taking. "It's not right."

"Dean." Not quite a question, but wondering all the same, his mouth tense as he watches Dean struggle.

"Don't you get it? We're in Purgatory. We are supposed to be suffering here. To be fighting through our demons so we can get out again. We can't, I can't afford--"

"To feel good?" There's a flush in Castiel's cheeks now, uncharacteristic, and Dean wishes it didn't set his heart humming in his throat to see him like that. "Did it feel good, then? My kissing you?"

"Shut up. You know it did." Dean looks away. He tries to push himself from Castiel, but their hands catch, the last thread of contact and he's not willing, or strong enough, to break it. "But this isn't the right time. I don't deserve it yet."

"Dean." Castiel's thumb tracks slow and heavy against Dean's hand. "My love is--"

He stops briefly as Dean flinches at the word, his face full of trepidation as he waits for the backlash. But Dean has none to give. Maybe it's the creature's poison that stays Dean's tongue, but he just doesn't have energy to push it away. Or maybe because Cas is the one who says it, and when he thinks about it real hard, it's not so much of a surprise.

After a guarded moment, Castiel goes on. "My love isn't something you earn. You have it. You have always had it."

"But why?" Dean truly doesn't understand. "Why me? I've never gotten an answer to that question. I've had angels tell me it had to be you, it was fate, blah, blah, blah, but I'm not anything special. Never have been. I'm not Mother Teresa or anything."

"And yet you were." Castiel looks at him steadily. "You still are. You have done nothing but give, Dean. Your soul, your life, your security."

"For Sam, though." Dean sighs. "Not for the world, not to strangers. I only ever gave anything for Sam."

Castiel's face darkens. "Believe me," he says, "I know."

A protective, defensive anger builds in Dean's chest, but his voice is weak. "Cas--"

"I wanted very much to hate him, Dean. I did. From the moment I met you I wanted to be your equal, to be beside you in a way I couldn't. Only Sam could fill that role. And he was Lucifer's vessel, and I should have hated him.

"But I couldn't, and I couldn't hate you, no matter how badly you treated me." Dean starts to protest, out of reflex more than anything, and Castiel lifts a finger to his lips. "You did, Dean. You treated me horribly. Because you thought I was something better than you, and you were so disappointed when I wasn't.

"You kill gods and monsters, but I was the only one you ever held to that ridiculous, untouchable standard. When you were yelling at me, when you'd trapped me in that holy fire, I wanted to hate you so much. Accusing me of doing the very things you yourself had done for so long. And you did it for Sam. I did it for the universe and somehow that wasn't good enough for you." His voice is starting to break with emotion. "Why did you do that? Couldn't you see the rank hypocrisy?"

The words rush out. "Of course I could. Of course I knew it was bull. I was partnering with Crowley two days before I found out you were... " He chokes, clears his throat. "But me, I was always just Dean. You were Cas, you were supposed to be better than me. And you fell? I couldn't take that. I didn't want to live in a world where that happened. Without you being what I wanted you ... what I needed you to be."

"But Dean, I've only ever been just a man. Maybe not on the outside, but..."

They've crept together again, without knowing it, and now Castiel's fingers are sliding into his hair, waist tucked up in the grip of Dean's palm. "Since the moment I met you... that's all I've ever been. Wanted to be. For you. With you."

It's as honest, as emotional as Dean's ever seen him, and something's breaking in him too, like the branches of a tree dipping heavy under a torrent of snow. There's a moment of release close by, and he can either take the barrage or he can let it break him. It's hard to see why he should keep holding on.

"I wonder still," Castiel says. "Can you learn to see me that way?"

There's no reason to keep holding on.

"Sure. Sure, Cas. You can be..."

And the weight of his feelings hit him then, like a wrecking ball taking down the last of the walls he's built around his heart. His lips part. "Jesus."

Castiel scowls. "Not him--"

"It's an expression." Dean says. From two inches away.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Barely words, syllables breathed, closer to each other, their noses bumping. When Castiel swallows, Dean can feel the vibration of the movement in his throat.

"Yeah," he says again, and then their lips meet.

This time the kiss is not a plea from Castiel, or a confession of feelings. It's just the two of them, just coming together, solace in each other's company, as they've been in different ways since this misadventure started. And Dean finds some comfort in it, is able to relax and enjoy the closeness, the wet heat of Castiel's breath and mouth against his own.

Pressing his mouth into Castiel's, needing - God, openly _needing_ for the first time in how long-- and even with the darkness outside it's unbearable the light in his heart.

“Cas," he whispers into the soft rub of Castiel's mouth. “Cas, do you think we can..."

"Anything," Cas whispers breathlessly. "Anything you want, Dean."

Dean's hand gathers up under the muddied white scrub of Castiel's shirt, finding his bare back. It's human and hot, searing his skin, and he wants more, needs it like he needs air and the wet perfect press of Castiel's mouth. "Cas," he murmurs, not demanding anything, just saying his name like a charm because Cas always has been that to him. Cas, a kind of magic that kept him going, and Dean has just now become aware of it. He presses Castiel's name into his lips, connecting them, wanting with his body what's kept his heart going for so long. "Cas, you-- God, just _you_."

Castiel presses against him, surging against his chest, and he gasps and pushes words back into Dean's mouth, "No, Dean, _you_."

It makes perfect sense to the both of them. They laugh, shakily, into each other's mouths, and Dean pulls Castiel down onto the dark and dirty floor of their makeshift hiding-place. Outside, the rain keeps falling, but for the first time the forest of Purgatory smells like green, growing things. The leaves that hide them from the rest of the world may just blush with color, but Dean's long since closed his eyes.

* * *

Jody's used to operating as an authority figure, but she's used to doing it in her own name. She turns over the fake ID in her hands and harrumphs. "Fed or nothing?"

"Fed or nothing," Sam says. "Everyone knows their local sheriffs. They don't know you, and they shouldn't. That's how you get by."

"Can't tell if it's better or worse that I actually have a badge, doing this," she says. "Leaning toward worse."

"You wanted to hunt. This is how it works."

The word _hunt_ brings a flush to her cheeks each time. "I am downright ashamed of myself for being this excited," she says. "I don't like monsters. There's no reason I should look forward to dealing with them."

"You don't look forward to it, per se. You just... do it, ‘cause that's the job. And the job can be exciting."

"You're wise," she says, and falls silent, contemplating her brand-new identity ("Agent Foster? Really?") until they reach the house of one Fay Tran, whose son has been missing for a while now.

She welcomes them, serves them tea, and proceeds to be very tight-lipped. More than tight-lipped: she stares at Sam and Jody as though judging them, and Sam wonders if she has any clue about the gravity of her situation. He has to wonder if Kevin has run away before, or if Fay is simply mistrustful of authorities. Either is a possibility.

"We understand your son was quite the intellectual," he says after several tense, silent moments.

"Kevin is a very gifted boy," Fay says, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "Very gifted and very complicated..."

Sam and Jody look at each other. "What do you mean by that?"

Fay looks horrified at herself for having spoken it aloud. "It is private family business."

"I understand that," Sam says, leaning forward, "but ma'am, if we're going to find your son, we need to know everything about him. Anything might be relevant."

"It's... it's private." But she's breaking down before his eyes. He thinks he hears Jody mutter behind him. Something like _damn good at that_. He tries to suppress a smirk.

"Do you really think you can find him?" Fay says.

"Absolutely, ma'am," Jody says. "But we do have to have all the facts."

Fay gets up and crosses the room. "Kevin has had his troubles," she says slowly. Sam nods at Jody, a silent _Well done_. She rolls her eyes briefly before focusing again on Kevin's mother, who has pulled a sheaf of papers out of a drawer and is poring over them silently. "He had... a very active imagination as a child. He used to wake us up in the middle of the night, telling us he'd had dreams about demons."

"Go on," Sam says, carefully, after a glance at Jody. "What about demons?"

"He said he could hear them talking in his dreams," Fay went on. "They always talked about these children. Kevin woke up screaming about them sometimes." She shudders. "He said they were waiting for the children to awaken."

Sam's blood runs cold. "And did they?"

Fay turns to him. Her eyes are dark with suspicion, but Jody puts a comforting hand on her shoulder, nods. "I know it must seem strange," she says. "But we really do need to know every detail."

Under Jody's level gaze, Fay softens again. "When he was ten," she says. "It got so much worse, then. He started to talk about the children dying, or killing, and the things he said were so terrible..."

She thrusts the papers into Jody's hands. Jody looks at them, then passes them to Sam without a word.

_The child picked up a gun today. The gun was on the end of a tank. He put it back down before anyone saw what he could do._

_He's learning how to make them move, and the knife shines silver in his eye. He'll put a knife in her eye, someday, for what she's seen and never stopped. Damn her eyes._

_Today she bought a pack of gum. She handed over the dollar, and the clerk put change in her hand, and his heart stopped._

_She's bleeding -- crying out for him and pleading -- the cookies sit on the table forgotten -- and I'm there, laughing, waiting for him to come home. Waiting for her to burn._

He closes his eyes and fights back a wave of nausea.

"We had him see a counselor, you see," Faye says. "A therapist. He said Kevin should try writing the stories down. It helped. Now Kevin keeps a diary. He writes in it every night, and he says it calms him. Helps him sleep. Helped him--" She breaks down again, fighting back sobs. Jody rubs her shoulder soothingly, but her eyes are on Sam.

"Ma'am," she says, "we'll need to see that diary."

 

In a few more minutes they have it in hand, and Sam is flipping through with an expression of amazement on his face. "It's everything," he says. "Everything that happened. The Devil's Gate opening, the demons escaping, the seals, Lucifer-- it's all here. Kevin didn't suddenly become a prophet one day, he's been one all his life. He just didn't know it."

"But he didn't know you," Jody says. "Didn't your friend Chuck know..."

"That's just it," Sam says, flipping through another page. "It's not about us. It's not about the angels. It's all the demons' POV. Chuck was a prophet of the Lord, but maybe Kevin is... another kind."

"A demon's prophet? Is that possible?"

"I don't see why not. Ruby used to tell me demons had their own lore, their own kind of Bible. Why not their own prophets?" Sam turns another page, and his jaw drops. "Oh, wow."

"What?" Jody looks over his shoulder. Her jaw hits the floor just as fast. "That's--"

Sam shuts the book and tucks it under his arm. "I think we've found our bargaining chip."

* * *

Dean wakes up and is warm. He presses his face into the warmth, because it's such an unusual sensation, especially recently. The warmth responds, moans and pushes back against him, and Dean registers that the warmth is soft too, and flushed. He works, brain hitching into slow gear, on understanding it. Is it liquid? No, it's solid, but flexible, pliant... it's human.

His eyes open slowly, but he remembers all in a rush.

Castiel is tangled and curled up into him, like he could burrow his way into Dean's body if he only tried hard enough. It's a perfect fit, limbs and flesh pressed together in an utterly flawless jigsaw, though if Dean concentrates hard he can start to become uncomfortable in one place or another. He has to concentrate to be uncomfortable. That in itself makes his mind reel.

They're wearing less than full clothes, Castiel's pants and Dean's boxers still on and little else, and even those are riding up so skin is pressed on skin very nearly everywhere. Dean takes in a soft breath and swallows hard at the memory of what happened before sleep, the mad erotic helpless tangle they ended up in again, clinging and kissing and just trying to taste as much of each other as they could.

Castiel had been so giving, so focused on Dean... even when they were pressed together hard and he was choking back a cry, his eyes had been wide open, on Dean always...

Dean closes his eyes again. He has to fight back a shudder that might be tears. He's terrified right now, and grateful to a God he doesn't believe really exists, and already mourning the moment when this sudden, precious, solid, fragile thing in his arms will fall away into nothing again.

He won't be able to take it when it does. He should push away, extricate himself, find a vantage point from which he can watch everything from a distance.

It's impossible. Castiel is the one thing he can't distance himself from. Not when he was a friend, not when he was an enemy. Never.

He couldn't forgive, he couldn't say goodbye, he couldn't let go.

Dean presses his face into Castiel's open shoulder. He needs. Openly and helplessly. He needs Castiel.

The knowledge chimes through him like a church bell, and it's only the warmth of his own joy that keeps him from drowning in shame.

* * *

"So Charlie."

"Oh, God, what now? I did everything you asked me. I've been keeping track of all the creepy monsters for you."

"I know, I know, and you've been doing great. I appreciate it."

"You're really, really bad at listening when a girl tells you to leave her alone, aren't you?"

Sam balks. "I--"

"Never mind. Sorry. That sounded worse than I meant it. So. What's up now?"

Sam takes a deep breath. "I need to ask you two things. Two favors, actually."

"I hate you, you know that?"

"I know. Look, think of it this way... have you seen Inception?"

Silence on the line. When Charlie speaks again, her voice is that vague, skeptical shade of interested that Sam was hoping for. "What about it?"

"I need to know if you can do more than extract information."

"If I can..." She blows air through her lips. "Please. Who do you think I am?"

"Great. Then I'm gonna need you to spread a rumor for me."

"To the creepy monsters?"

"To the creepy monsters."

"Done."

Sam nods. "Good. I'm glad to hear it." He takes a breath. "So this next favor is gonna mean you need to get on the next bus here. And, um, it starts with a really, really indelicate question. I’m going to put a friend of mine on the line..."

* * *

The rain's stopped. Dean peeks out from behind their makeshift curtain. The sourceless light that illuminates these forests is starting to glow, blue and barely there. He sighs. At least the rain has an end, even here. That's something.

He glances over his shoulder. Castiel's still asleep, or at least resting. Dean knows better than to think he's really unconscious, not of his own volition. But let him pretend to sleep a bit more. Maybe Dean can gather some more supplies while it's light out.

The curtain parts under his hands, and he slips out into the muddy morning. A creature howls in the distance, but the forest is devoid of red eyes. The monsters rest and regenerate. Dean nods. He can find some supplies now.

Over the days they've traveled this monotonous landscape, they've discovered a number of them. Sticks to use as makeshift weapons when they have to fight their way to shelter. Growing things that can salve wounds, ease fatigue-worn feet. Things he can chew when he just needs the taste of something besides stale air in his mouth. Pieces of hope and healing in a forest that knows nothing but destruction. He's come to see each of them as a little miracle.

No, that's not so. He's come to see himself as the miracle, his own existence. Or, at least, he's come to see that Castiel sees him as a miracle.

And now, as he looks out over the landscape, he thinks he sees a few more.

The air is more alive, and it smells fresher than it has. Dean takes a deep breath, wondering if he's just imagined it, but there's definitely something springy and vivid in the atmosphere now that hasn't been there. And a cluster of shoots at his feet actually has a green tint to it; Dean had been sure that everything in this place grew black and brown.

All this from one night? Just from letting Cas into his arms, accepting the fact that Cas is special to him?

No. He knows the truth. It's from accepting that he's special to Cas. That's the harder lesson to learn.

He stumbles across the forest floor, stepping into puddles of black muck where leaves have melted into pools of liquid sick from the rain. It reminds him of Leviathan blood, and he wonders, not for the first time, if there are still Leviathans stuck in this place, if he's already seen or fought them, or if they are those black leaves, watching and waiting and laughing at his naivete.

But Cas would know. And Cas hasn't said a thing. Dean trusts him. Even though there is probably plenty Cas hasn't told him, still isn't telling him-- Dean trusts him.

It's a weird sort of equilibrium, to be all right with not knowing things. He's never been any good at it. Maybe it's just the confidence that if he needs to know something, he's sure Castiel will tell him.

All evidence and history to the contrary notwithstanding. But maybe that was the problem before. Maybe if Dean had trusted him, Cas would have returned the souls before the Leviathans took hold, and...

Damn it. He's found a way to make Bobby's death his fault. He knew he would, sooner or later.

He collapses against a tree, breathes heavily, and tries to get a handle on himself. He doesn't want to trust Cas because trusting him means blaming himself for more. That's bullshit. And yet the minute the blame sinks in, he can't be rid of it. It's like a virus, and it's infected him his whole damn life...

"Dean."

He's gathered up, folded into arms, and suddenly it's so warm it's like the sun came out on a sweltering summer day. Castiel's breath huffs hot against his neck, and the words, barely whispered, sear with their intensity. "You weren't in the shelter. I worried."

Dean's arms are around him in a second. "I'm fine," he reassures, but that's not what he's thinking. He's thinking, _how do you know? How do you always know to be here when I'm this close to losing it? What did I ever do to deserve you there for me the way you are?_

Castiel's embrace tightens. "I'm afraid." Strange admission in that voice, uncharacteristic and trembling. "I don't want you to regret..."

"I don't." Dean squeezes him. He leans forward, drawn by the strange, enticing scent of Castiel's skin, and lays a kiss on his neck. "Cas, I don't regret it. Kinda hoping for more." Hope surges through his heart, replacing the turmoil that had been there just a moment before. Castiel's touch does this to him. Castiel's closeness.

"I love you," Castiel whispers. "I love you, Dean. I love you."

"Cas--" The words are terrifying, or they should be, but Dean can't find the wherewithal to be scared by them. Maybe because they're not news. He's always known Cas loves him. He's just never been able to accept it until now.

He doesn't know if he can say it back, if he should, but in another moment the dilemma is replaced by something ten times more pressing.

"Do you hear that?" he whispers against Castiel's ear. "Listen."

It's not just the trickling of leftover raindrops. It's stronger, more constant.

"Water," Castiel says. "Running water."

"That's new." Dean's heart thuds. "That's really frigging new."

"Come on."

Castiel pulls away from him, leads him by the hand through the forest. The contact is as simple as it gets, but Dean can't help staring at the knot where their fists lock together. It looks like the strongest kind of bond. His heart is in his throat.

The greening of the shoots and herbs at their feet lead the way. As they follow the splashes of color in the landscape, the sound gets louder and closer. It sounds not just like a spring but a river, wide and rushing. Or maybe even a stream sounds that loud after so long in the absence of any living sounds. The brush gets thicker, and nettles sting his legs as he works his way through it, but Castiel's hand in his is a lifeline, and he's not willing to break it for any amount of pain.

And then, abruptly, the trees end, and he and Castiel are left hand in hand staring at something they could never have imagined in a million years would appear in this world.

"What the hell is this place?" Dean half-whispers. He's almost afraid of breaking the stillness, sending all the small glowing things elsewhere. One step of his thick-booted foot into this sanctuary might destroy it all.

Beside him, Castiel is no less still or reverent. Dean can hear his breaths slowing. Terrified and enraptured, they stand at the edge of the glen, afraid to blink for fear it will all disappear again.

It looks, for lack of a better word, like fairyland. Green things coat the ground. Spongy moss and brilliant leaves of thin white flowers that seem to glow, illuminating the surrounding greenery with a dim circle of light. The smell of life, of soil and water, pervades the air, and the whole area seems to pulsate with light. The sky is brighter here, not just because there are no trees to hide the daylight. It's everything wondrous and mystical, everything that purgatory should not be and has not been until this moment.

"How is this here?" Dean wonders aloud. "I mean, how is this still here? How come the monsters haven't ruined this already?"

Castiel gazes at him through half-lidded eyes, and Dean can feel the words trembling behind his lips. He doesn't want to hear Castiel say it out loud, because admitting it would be the first step to losing it. This is the part of his soul that has been walled off, inviolable, for so very long. It's the part of him that has kept him fighting when he had no earthly reason to do so. He recognizes it, as clearly as if he were looking in a mirror.

He turns away and closes his eyes. In a way he finds it horribly ugly. This has always been the part of him that's been the hardest to face.

He expects Castiel to say something, but the silence is absolute. For an instant his eyes are stolen by the vista. The illumination, the heady sense of life that stretches on for miles, almost to the horizon, were it not for the black ring of trees on the far end Dean would think he'd reached a green sea. It terrifies him that this is part of himself, and he's blinking back tears at having to face it.

When he can, he casts his eyes to where Castiel is standing.

Where Castiel _was_ standing. He's gone.

* * *

"I can't believe I had to ask her that," Jody says, laughing, as she hangs up the phone. Sam watches her with amusement -- it was a pretty funny conversation to listen to one-half of -- and some warmth. It feels nice to have a plan and hope, even if it's going to take them into the lion's mouth before they're done. If it works out the way it's supposed to, they'll have Dean home sooner rather than later, and take care of a few other loose ends in the process.

But first the seeds need to be sown, and Charlie needs to get here. So for now, all they can do is wait.

"She seems like a nice girl," Jody says. "Kind of..."

"Weird?"

"I was going to say eccentric. But that's probably a better description. She makes an awful lot of references."

"That's sort of her schtick." Sam shrugs and slides his feet onto the coffee table. Jody puts her feet up there, too -- half the time wearing striped socks that Sam has to try not to laugh aloud at -- so he's not worried about her disapproving. He's gotten used to house rules. Come to think of it, this is probably the longest he's stayed in one house since he had one of his own.

In moments of carelessness, he's gone so far as to think of it as home.

Jody looks at him, and their eyes connect. Sam can feel that possibility brimming behind her gaze, and it's not as scary this time. He stretches an arm over the back of the couch, and she stops a moment, registering the invitation, before moving across the room and tucking herself carefully into the crook of his elbow. Not quite snuggling, but accepting the touch, allowing them to be connected. Sam resists the urge to gather her closer. Her face is still sober, and she's parting her lips as though she has something to say. He wants to be sure he listens well.

"I'm sorry if I pushed things too far," she says. "Shouldn't have said some of what I said, probably."

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh. "You didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, deep down."

"I don't know," she says, her eyelids sliding down for a moment. Abashed, her cheeks tinting with color, she's beautiful, and Sam can't help but rake his eyes over the length of her body, thinking, visualizing a touch. She's so solid and real, and to leave her behind, the way she had accused him of doing, would be such a shame. "Can't imagine you knew everything I was gonna say. Especially since you probably thought me and Bobby--"

Sam grins. "Bobby didn't kiss and tell. I wasn't gonna assume anything."

"He only kissed me once," Jody says with a laugh. "And it wasn't that kind of kiss."

"His loss," Sam says, and the smiles fade off both their faces in unison; the implications are clear, and a strange heaviness hangs in the air between them. Jody slides a little closer. Sam can feel his eyelids getting heavy. He leans down.

"Sam, no," Jody says, her chin dropping so his lips glance off her forehead instead of brushing her mouth.

He gives an exclamation of surprise and backs off, but his hand falls to her shoulder and stays there; turning to face him, she's well and truly tucked into his arms now, and the intimacy is too nice for him not to want more. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice low and confused, "I thought you wanted..."

"I do," she says. "Trust me, I do. But... we're close to getting your brother back, and let's face it, Sam, he is your other half." She reaches over her shoulder to pat his hand. "And call me greedy, but I don't want just half of you."

He opens his mouth to respond, but it occurs to both of them in the same moment just how weird that sounds, and they end up gaping at each other, eyes lit up with echoing surprise.

"That's not what I meant," she clarifies hastily.

Sam throws his head back, laughing loudly. "I know, I know."

Jody fidgets. "That was awkward."

He fights to control his laughter. "Remind me to tell you about Pamela someday."

"Seems like there are a lot of things I need to remind you to tell me about."

"Guess you'll be seeing a lot of me, then."

She shakes her head, smiling, and leans on his shoulder. "I hope so."

* * *

Dean thrashes through the greenery, stomping along the treeline. "Cas? Cas!" he keeps calling out, twice each time, as though the second use of the name might chase or amplify the first. There's no answer but the crunching sound of living things underfoot, and with each one Dean feels sick, as though he really is destroying something precious. A fatalistic piece of him thinks that this was inevitable, that he could no sooner know this piece of him exists than he would begin destroying it, and there's an almost sadistic pleasure in each footfall along with the revulsion that curls in his stomach. He knows if he looks back, he'll see trampled moss, crushed flowers. But all of that fades in the necessity of finding Castiel again.

But there is no answer. Not for a quarter-mile of trekking, doubling down, retreating into the forest to call out Cas's name again and returning to the edge of the glen. Dean was closer to Cas than he'd ever been, just a few minutes ago. Now he's utterly alone.

"What the hell is this?" he shouts to no one. "I thought you weren't going to disappear, you son of a bitch! I told you I needed you!"

"That's just it, Dean," says a low voice from the empty air in front of him. "You need him. Which is exactly why you can't have him right now."

Dean knows the voice, and the recognition makes his gut churn. He stares to the vacant space where it had come from, to see the lights from the tiny flowers pooling together. He shields his eyes, but as they amass they become less brilliant, more solid, until the creature that forms is a dimly glowing black heap. It spreads an outsized shadow over the beauty of the oasis.

"What-- who are you?" Dean says. As he speaks, the shape begins to shrink and congeal into something vaguely human.

"I think you know," the voice says, a low voice, dark like velvet. Not a voice that Dean had ever hoped he'd hear again.

Gordon Walker crosses his arms and gives a toothy grin. "I always knew you'd end up here," he says.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding their way through purgatory means Dean and Castiel must face monsters and an endless landscape of darkness, but it also means they must navigate the wilds of their own troubled souls. Meanwhile, Sam seeks out an ally in his quest to bring his brother home and finds he has his own unpleasant truths to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/profile)[**akadougal**](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/) for excellent beta work and being a cheerleader throughout! Thanks to the DCBB mods for putting together such a wonderful project. And really, extra super-special thanks to my artist, [](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://scarletscarlet.livejournal.com/)**scarletscarlet** , who in addition to the art has helped with monster design, plot tweaks, and supplementary beta duties, and has really been a true partner in making this story happen. I am so grateful.

"What does that mean?" is Dean's first question. He wishes he could be surprised to see Gordon here, but he isn't. This is the place monsters go when they're killed, and Gordon was a monster. At least, at the end.

No, the only thing that surprises him is what Gordon's just said -- that he knew Dean would show up here someday. Dean's been told time and time again that he'll rot in hell, but purgatory is the one place he never counted on ending up.

"What, no greetings? No 'So glad to see you, Gordon'? No 'I wanted to apologize for getting you turned into a vampire so you'd end up spending an eternity in this place'? I'm hurting, Dean. You got me right here." Gordon thumps his chest. His smile is a bloodthirsty, wide thing, and Dean can only think that he looks no different, human or vampire or Purgatory monster. He's always taken pleasure in bloodletting in a way Dean never has. Dean knows bastards who deserved what they got, but he didn't enjoy every minute. Not the way Gordon does. Not even when he was in hell.

"What did you mean?" he asks again. "When you said I'd end up here."

"Just what I said." Gordon spreads his arms, wide, as though asking for an embrace. "You were never going to have a great reward, Dean. Or an eternal punishment. You were a sick half-breed even when you were human. So what was it, huh? A werewolf bite? Vampire blood, like me? Or something else? Do tell."

"None of the above," Dean says, "and none of your business."

Gordon frowns then, and steps closer. Dean shudders as he comes within a foot of him, sniffs like he's trying to suss out the source of a foul odor. "You're still human," he says. "Really? That's disappointing. I was looking forward to ripping your spleen out through your mouth every night for the rest of eternity."

"Yeah, well, sorry for the disappointment." Dean slides his hand along the outline of his knife, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. They're shredded, and it's too obvious to even try to conceal it.

Gordon follows the motion of his hand and laughs. "Speaking of disappointment, I hope you don't think you can kill me again. Especially not with that pig-sticker. This is Purgatory, my friend. You can't kill what's already dead."

"Scores of ghosts I know could argue with you there." Dean takes out the knife. "But don’t worry, I don't plan to kill you. Just shut you up for as long as it takes to get my ass out of here."

"Really?" Gordon circles him, slowly, letting Dean turn to face him at each angle. "You're just going to high-tail it on up to heaven and leave your friend behind?" He laughs again. "Or should I say, your boyfriend?"

Dean doesn't even bother getting pissed about that. "Where is he, Gordon?"

"Oh, _now_ you think to ask. You were a lot more worried about yourself just a minute ago. I guess you still are the selfish brat you always were."

Dean jabs at him with the knife. Gordon dodges it easily, laughing the whole time. He skids, and where his feet fall, the spongy grass beneath them is trampled into something sick and flat and brown.

"Did I hit a sore spot?" Gordon gazes at him triumphantly, and Dean doesn't know how to answer that. He's had no problem calling himself a selfish brat before. He's a coarse, violent, woman-loving, beer-swilling cowboy of a guy and he never pretended to be a hero. He shouldn't give a damn if Gordon, of all people, wants to trash-talk him by calling him what he already is. "Don't tell me you'd started to believe the hype, Dean. You're not a big damn hero, you never were. You were always just a killer, like me."

"Where is Cas?" Dean growls, holding back.

"Do you know what is so sad about him?" Gordon says. "You remember when he would disappear on you over and over? That wasn’t just you deciding you wouldn’t need him. That was his soul, too. When you didn’t need him, he ceased to be, and that was his soul’s darkest nightmare. He’s got no reason to be without you. It’s a good thing he still doesn’t understand just how selfish you are, Dean. It just might kill him."

Dean’s hand loosens on the knife, and he trembles. Now that it’s been pointed out, it’s incredibly obvious -- Cas disappearing wasn’t just a punishment for him, it was a punishment for Cas, too. His head throbs with the knowledge, and his chest aches. If only he’d said more to Cas. Where is he now? Somewhere, far away, thinking Dean’s just tossed him aside again?

And there’s nothing Dean can do. He hangs his head.

"You see my point," Gordon says. "Even when you realize just how selfish you’ve been, you don’t move. You always take the easy way out, Dean, the coward’s way out."

Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath and tightens his grip on the knife again. If only Gordon would stop _talking._

Not a chance. "You won’t survive this. You won’t ever see your friend again. And there's no way you're ever getting into heaven."

"Good thing that's not where I'm headed, then," Dean says, and he jabs the knife forward.

Metal slices skin, sinks into the depths of whatever passes for Gordon's body right now, and he laughs even through the choke of blood that pours from his mouth. "See?" Gordon manages, then spits out another mouthful of blood. "You've gone right to killing again. Even though you know it's useless. And you're never going to find your friend now."

"I'll find him," Dean says, pulling out the blade and wiping it on his shirt. He kicks Gordon hard, and his body falls, crumpled, into the darkening grass. "Don't need your help to do it."

"I'm not the only one, you know," Gordon says. "Say hello to your ghosts of Christmas Past for me, Dean." He’s still chuckling as Dean walks on and leaves him behind.

* * *

They perform the summoning spell out on Jody's patio, which Sam has noted is really nice but has a grill gathering dust in the corner. "This gets done," he said to her once during their nights of research, "I'll make you dinner." Then he realized what he'd said and blushed hard. Jody had to turn away to hide her laughter.

Crowley's got his arms folded over his chest when he appears. He raises an eyebrow at Sam and Jody, nonplussed. "Oh, this had better be good. Thank you for at least sparing me the shower curtain this time."

"Let's talk about Kevin Tran," Sam says. "What do you want from him?"

"That's for me to know and you to spin your wheels trying to find out, moose."

"I'm not the one who's dying to find something out," Sam says. "You're looking for a prophecy, and Kevin's the only one who can give it to you."

Crowley laughs. "I think you have me confused with Lord Voldemort, darling. Besides. Prophecies have been ripped to shreds ever since your lot averted the apocalypse. Which I'm quite thankful for, mind you, but I think our dues have been well past paid on that score--"

"Apocalyptic prophecies, maybe," Sam says. "But there's still the Word of God. You figure that out, you unlock the secrets of the universe. King of Hell isn't enough for you anymore, is it? You want to take over upstairs, too. You want to be God."

"Oh, is that all you nitwits can think of?" Crowley harrumphs. "I am God already, de facto. There's nobody around with more power than I have. All I want is security."

Sam doesn't expect that. He frowns, looks at Jody, who shrugs at him.

Crowley sighs. "It was all fun and games while our friends upstairs were running the show. Now I have no angels to depend on and a bunch of my crazy cousins running loose up here. You took care of the head of the pack, and that's appreciated. But I still need to get a grip on things. Uncertainty is bad for business."

He shuffles his feet as he speaks, and Sam can't help thinking how un-Crowleylike that is. The uncertainty isn't just bad for business, he thinks. It's genuinely upsetting Crowley.

"What kind of a grip could you possibly need?" he wonders aloud. "You just said you're the most powerful being around."

"And, like I said, that's for me to know," Crowley snaps back. "Now, is there a point to this little chat, or are you just trying to bore me to death and back?"

"Oh, there's a point." Sam nods toward the grill. Under the grating, sitting on a set of dry gray charcoal, sits Kevin's diary. A devil's trap is painted around the grill set.

"And that is?"

"The prophecy you're looking for," Sam says. "I have it. You want it, you give me what I want."

"Bring your brother back?"

"And Cas, and Kevin. All three, or no prophecy for you."

"There could be anything in that book. A recipe for moose stew."

"But there isn't, and you know it."

"You're right, I do," Crowley says. "Which is why I didn't come alone."

Two demons sweep in from either side, in the bodies of strangers, and in a minute one's grappling with Sam, another grabbing Jody by the shoulders. Sam's thrown halfway across the porch, his cheek scraping the wood, and he struggles to find his way upright again.

Jody's quicker on the draw. As the demon tries to pull her into a headlock, she jerks forward, pulling the demon just far enough with her that she spins in his grasp. Her knee shoots upward. The demon groans, doubles over, and Jody clocks him over the head.

"What do you know," she says with a grin. "Demon or no, they still hurt when you kick 'em in the jewels." Sam snorts as he finds his way upright again.

Their laughter is short-lived. In another moment, a half-dozen demons are approaching, emerging from the bushes in the back of the yard. They move quickly, and this time there's no time to evade them. One twists Jody's arm behind her back, and she cries out in anguish as he forces her back. Sam is left free, but one of the demons shoves him toward the circle where the grill sits.

"The book," Crowley says evenly, holding out his hand. Sam looks around for an out, can't find one, and staggers another foot toward the devil's trap.

"Sam, stop!" Jody's cry is impotent, useless. She struggles, and the demon pulls her tight against him.

Sam holds out a hand "Don't-- don't hurt her."

"Cry me a river," Crowley says. "The book, Samuel. Chop-chop."

Sam turns toward the book and takes another step.

"What the bloody hell?"

Crowley's voice. The porch is suddenly, oddly quiet. Sam pauses, his fingers an inch from the book, and turns.

The demon holding Jody hostage has frozen in place. His white skin is starting to extrude a network of black veins. Behind him, another of what Sam had assumed were demons grins.

"We'll take that, please," the Leviathan says.

* * *

Gordon's right. They come, trampling across the meadow of his soul in long, solemn order. The shapeshifters who have taken his form. The werewolves and skinwalkers whose blood he's spilled. They come at him in the forms he remembers and in new, monstrous form, each with teeth and claws and tentacles more terrible than the next. It's a parade of horrors, and all Dean has is his knife, but even as he swings away the deeper damage falls on his ears as they tell him, one by one, what he's sentenced them to.

"You looked me in the eye," says one, "and told me you hoped there was a hell for monsters, just so I'd be there. How does it feel?"

"I just wanted to be with him," says a spirit that had mutated into a something more than a ghost. "For that, you killed me."

"You thought you were such a big damn hero. You even said it to me. 'I'm the hero, you're the bad guy, that's the way it goes.' Now that you've walked a mile in my shoes, do you still think you're worthy of passing judgment?"

And the worst just say, "With what you've done, you're worse than a monster."

And most of them don't speak, just attack. Dean swings his knife from one side to the other, cutting them down like foliage in the dark forests, grunting. Claws tear his flesh, blows bruise him and knock the wind out of him. His knife flashes a dull grey where too much putrid black blood has dulled what used to be a silver sheen. More of the dark stuff flows from the creatures' wounded bodies. It spatters on Dean's face, stains his clothing , drips onto his feet and the greenery below him. Still, he can't be stopped, won't be stopped. Not now.

"Get out of my face," he shouts, like a battle cry, and slashes a beast in two. It falls before him, too big for him to comfortably vault or step over, and for a moment he's forced to stop, to take stock of where he is and what's around him.

Black blood dripping everywhere. His clothing soaked with it. And the bodies of creatures, incapacitated and as close to dead as they can get in this timeless place, littered around him.

The green oasis of his soul is stained. And as he watches, the stains multiply, spread like blotches of running ink all around him. One opens up at his feet, and where it is, he can barely move his feet.

The whispers of the angered beasts come back to him now, echoing in his ears. What has he gained, inflicting more pain and torture in a place like this? How has he done anything better than he did in hell, at Alastair's bidding, to the souls of sinners? And now the black marks on his soul are multiplying again, destroying the last remaining good in him. Just like he thought they would. That's why he didn't want to set foot in this place, even look at it. He knew as soon as he acknowledged it, it'd be as good as gone.

He falls to his knees. The monsters have stopped attacking, maybe because they no longer need to. The one in his heart is clawing him up inside. His hands go to his face, cover his ears as though shielding him from a piercing cry, and he shouts wordlessly into the black gunk spreading at his feet. His eyes close. He can't. He's just falling into sin again. Becoming a monster no different from the ones he's cut down here.

His lip curls in disgust, and he considers taking the knife and plunging it into his own heart. Just to break him enough to stop the pain for a moment. Perhaps the monsters come here, open themselves to the knife, for the same reason. Not to destroy but to be destroyed. Over and over and over.

He really is one of them.

_You're not. Dean, you're not one of them. You're so much better than that._

Does he imagine the mouth that touches his protruding lower lip? He must, because when his eyes open there's nothing. A shadow of a presence, something that maybe was, and maybe will be, but is not. Not Cas. But it could be.

Dean wants to reach out and hold what isn't there. He can't; his arms are heavy from guilt and shame. But when he lets his eyes flutter closed again, he thinks he can feel Cas's proximity one more time.

 _What do I do?_ he asks in his head. _How can I move on with all these black marks on my soul?_

He feels the ghost of the kiss again, and strength floods his limbs. Cas's voice doesn’t give him the answer, but it comes nonetheless.

Of course there are black spots on his soul. There are on everyone's. And the only thing you can do is leave them behind and move on.

* * *

The Leviathan steps forward. Two others join him. The others, true demons, shrink back as their companion falls to the ground, lifeless, black ooze seeping from his mouth. "Again," the Leviathan says, "we'll take that book. We're not afraid of devil's traps, you know."

Crowley seethes. "You lifeless, headless cretins!" He lashes out, extending an arm, and the Leviathans are momentarily thrown backward against Jody's porch doors. "Didn't you have the sense to slither off and die when Dick exploded?"

"We need the prophecy," the Leviathan says as it pulls itself upright again.

"What could you possibly do with a prophecy? You're dumb animals."

"We need our purpose," the Leviathan says, and Crowley's quiet just long enough to get Sam's attention.

"Your purpose?" he says, shielding the book with his body, staying within the devil's trap. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Crowley snaps, "they're like chickens with their heads cut off and they think the prophecy's going to tell them what to do next. Sorry, but you blokes are obsolete." He pauses, then smiles. "Unless..."

Sam catches sight of Jody. She's slipping backward toward the porch stairs, and right now it doesn't look like either the Leviathans or the demons have noticed. "Unless what?" he says, loudly, trying to draw their attention for another moment.

"Yeah," the Leviathan says, "what?" He's focused singularly on Crowley.

"You need a leader," Crowley says. "I could be obliged to... take you in, as it were. I do have experience in upper management."

The Leviathans look at each other. Sam realizes then just how colossally dumb they are without their leader. Were these really the same creatures that very nearly destroyed Dean and him forever? But the prophecy had said, kill the head of the snake and the rest will fall... and that sure as hell seemed to have come true. No wonder they were all so intent on getting their hands on what Kevin had written.

"What do we get out of it?" the one in front says, his confidence dubious at best.

"Purpose." Crowley smirks.

"We don't need you for that. We just need the prophecy."

"And if it doesn't give you what you need? I'm the one with the prophet himself. Suppose I offer you equal access. Supervised conjugal visits, as it were." Sam tries and fails to suppress a cringe at the image. "All you need to do is walk into that circle and hand me that book..."

"If you say so." Sam's hesitance falls away, and before Crowley can think twice about it, Sam's headed into the devil's trap, leaned over the grill, and slid his hand over a small switch at the base. Crowley cries out, too late, as Sam straightens up with a smile.

A puff of flame engulfs the grill, and Kevin's diary catches. The acrid smell of burning pages and a sick black smoke, like an anemic demon, fill the air. It's seconds before the whole thing is incinerated.

"Electric grills," Sam says. "All you have to do these days is flip a switch. It's like cheating."

Crowley glares at him. "You're a bigger fool than I thought. Now you're never going to get what you want. What leverage do you have?"

"I have the last copy of the prophecy," Sam says. "You want to see?"

* * *

No more monsters now, just the terrain, just the mottled surface of his soul. It's soft in patches, a bruised apple, and when Dean steps too close, the black spots pull him in like sinkholes. He leaps over them, dodges them by inches, his eyes fixed on the ground to navigate his way. He hadn't wanted to look at it this closely, but these are his foes now -- not those he's wronged, but the dark parts of himself, and he has to face them to move past them, has to cast his eyes on both the sacred and profane. When his eyes lift to the horizon, he can no longer see a treeline. Just the expanse of the oasis, grown to envelop the world.

It's not the kind of place a creature of any kind can hide, and Dean feels like the proverbial sore thumb, the only upright thing in miles. If this place had lightning, he'd be struck at the first bolt.

It's no place Castiel can hide. Which means Castiel is worlds away.

Dean's heart winces. He's been very, very alone in his life, but this is consuming. He can do nothing but trek toward the horizon and hope that it doesn't continue this flat forever, leaving him in an endless journey to find a man who won't be found.

"Damn, Cas," he murmurs. "I told you I needed you with me. Who in the hell said you could disappear now?"

No answer from the unfair universe that is his own self. Distraught, he stumbles. Maybe it's no longer that Castiel disappears when Dean doesn't need him. Maybe Castiel doesn't need Dean anymore.

His hands fall into a black patch and are mired there. He pulls them free, wrenching his shoulders. He can't give up.

"Is that it?" he asks, and wheezes in a lungful of thick air. It's choking his will and his life away, thick and hard to breathe. "You don't need me anymore?" A few more stumbling steps. "I mean, that would make sense. I meant what I said. You were always better than me, you know that. But Cas... we're better with each other."

He doesn't have the strength to move. So he stands, still, palms open and dripping with darkness. His chin lifts and he eyes the horizon.

"This is my soul," he says. "And you're in my soul, whether you like it or not, Cas. So one more time... be here for me."

The whole world falls away.

* * *

Crowley himself lunges forward this time, but Sam sidesteps him, his smile growing with every second Crowley continues to growl like a wounded dog. "You're making this way too complicated," he says. "All I want is an eclipse. Give me that, give me a chance to get my brother out of Purgatory, and you can have the pages. It's that simple. Or we can keep playing games. I have more tricks up my sleeve."

"I don't doubt it for a minute," Crowley grumbles. He weighs Sam's words, humming frustratedly, for a moment, and then sighs and snaps his fingers. "Fine. You've got your bleeding eclipse already. I do hope you have your other ingredients ready, because you have one night to pull this off."

"Lunar eclipse, purgatory native blood and virgin blood, right? Sounds delish."

Two decapitated Leviathans crumple to the ground with twin thuds.

Charlie has a look at her sword, makes a face at the black ooze staining it, and tosses it to the side. "I am pretty grossed out that it’s gotta be straight sex to count against my virginity in your old-ass spells. So heteronormative." She scoops up one of the Leviathan heads, making a face. "Still, I have to admit this whole thing makes me feel pretty badass."

"Good for you," Crowley hisses at her, singsong. "Whoever you are." His eyes turn back to Sam. "Now show me the damned prophecy."

"You're the boss," Sam says. He pulls a sheaf of folded pages out of his pocket and unfolds them to hold before Crowley's eyes.

Crowley stares at them a moment with growing ire and lets out a furious snarl. "You can't be serious."

"Serious as the plague," Sam says. He turns the pages over, glances at the hundreds of ancient symbols that line up there like an alien army, and returns the papers to his pocket. "Guess you're going to have some trouble reading that without Kevin here."

"Not if I take it with me," Crowley says, and extends his hand. Sam flies back against the wall of the house, groaning. "Damn it, I hate it when you kill all my underlings." He takes a step forward. "I hate getting my hands dirty."

He steps forward again and slams against an invisible wall. Winded, he curls backward. " _No._ "

"You keep falling for it," Jody calls up from beneath the deck. She knocks on the wood where her newly drawn Devil's Trap, on the underside of the porch's floorboards, is keeping him pinned. "King of Hell? Really? Still not impressed."

* * *

Dean's senses blank out -- for a moment he doesn't see or feel. There's no gravity, no universe around him. He tries to cry out, but he can't take in breath or make noise. He just isn't. Or he exists, and nothing else does. One or the other.

When sight and feeling returns, he's beneath the surface of an ocean, suspended in something liquid, but thick and enveloping. He can move, but when he reaches for the surface of the water he can't break it. It's like being trapped in a fishbowl, and his voice travels only through his own bones to his ear. It doesn't carry in the material around him. It's strange and terrifying and foreign.

A footstep treads above him.

His palms spread against the unbreakable surface. He knows those sneakers, and the billow of the stained coat just above them.

"Cas!" he screams. The name vibrates in his skull and nowhere else.

The world is moving around him. As Castiel steps forward, Dean travels with him, floating in the bizarre sphere of solid ocean that Cas moves across. Dean catches sight of his face. His eyes have gone empty, and every few seconds his jaw trembles. He reaches out one tremor-wracked hand, and when he speaks, Dean can hear it.

"Dean, where are you..."

Dean tries to shout. His palm strikes flat against the surface, and he knows he's unheard.

As Castiel travels, and Dean follows, no monsters appear. This may well be the surface of Castiel's own soul, Dean thinks, and the more he thinks about it the more it makes sense. Castiel has no fear of creatures overpowering him or of becoming a monster himself, nor of preserving pristine life the way Dean did. There's something else that terrifies him, and Dean's heart tears as he realizes his own absence is part of the equation.

Hours or days pass, and Dean has fallen into a sort of half-sleeping daze. He watches Castiel move, watches the aloneness wear him down. Castiel has given up calling his name long since, and Dean wonders if he's gone into his own catatonic state. If he's ceased to feel. He's so very wrong.

Castiel collapses to his knees, and for the first time since Dean has known him, tears spill from his eyes unreservedly. Dean breaks out of his daze and motors his body to the surface, pressing himself against it in a vain attempt to break through. Castiel's hands clutch at his skull, and he screams. The noise reverberates through Dean's body and makes his bones feel hollow and brittle, like they might shatter with the force of it. Sick, on the verge of his own tears, he plasters himself against the unbreakable wall and watches.

"What am I without you?" Castiel whispers.

"Every time I have tried to be anything, I have failed unless you were there. I tried to fight, I tried to become God, I tried to make up for my mistakes, and without you I couldn't even hold myself together." He curls forward, his forehead touching the ground. The torture on his face has never been more abject or closer. Dean's heart shatters.

"Why do I have to need you so much?" he whispers. "Why am I talking to you now, even though you're not here?"

"I'm here. Cas, Cas, I am." He pounds on the barrier between them. It doesn't break, doesn't even vibrate.

"I told you I gave you everything," Castiel says. "But you gave me everything, without even knowing it. A sense of right and wrong, a purpose, something to value. Without you, I wouldn't know how to feel. I wouldn't know how to be more than a machine. I can't, I can't lose you again. I won't be _anything_."

Dean's heart is pounding so hard he's surprised it's not kicking up waves in the water. He presses his own forehead to the surface, to where Castiel's own forehead touches the ground. They're touching without touching. It reminds him of the moment when he was on his knees in his own despair, and he thought he felt Castiel's kiss and heard his words.

He could be that now to Cas. He has to.

"You're wrong," he says. "Cas, you're wrong. You are something. You're good. I couldn't have given you anything if you weren't good."

He remembers real kisses now, and the warmth of Castiel's body against his in the cold shudder of the rain-soaked air. Protected by black leaves and the tangle of roots, their own blood the only heat. Tangled together, finding their way to a home and a happiness that had sustained them through a long night.

"But yeah, we're better together," he goes on. "That's the point, that's love. It doesn't mean we're bad. We can't be. We have to be good to know what it is."

Are his hands starting to claw through the barrier? He thinks he feels them sinking, but he can't stop now. He stops and he'll be stuck.

"You said it yourself," he says. "You said you loved me even though I didn't love myself. That's what you always wanted for me, remember? You wanted me to love myself."

The water chokes him, a last gasp of everything wrong trying to destroy the tide of rightness flowing through him. He spits it out, fights through the leaden heaviness of the underworld he's stuck in.

"I love you, Cas. So love yourself."

Castiel's eyes open wide.

"Dean?"

The barrier breaks with the force of his pounding heart. Dean's coursing up through it like he's made of water himself, defying gravity and reality. He reaches out, grabs Castiel's hands, his arms and shoulders, drawing him upward from his crouch, and they're both finding their way to stand, solid, on the ground. Castiel's eyes meet his. Dean draws him in. Their mouths meet, and the taste of monster blood and the ocean of tainted souls drains away in the sweet shock of lips on lips, heart touching heart, love.

The embrace lingers. Castiel's fingers cling to the nape of his neck. They can't stop exchanging kisses. They don't need any more words. Just each other. Just togetherness.

Is the world changing around them? Are trees growing again? Is it light or dark? Are there shadows creeping around them? Do they hear the menacing snarl of monsters?

It doesn't matter. This is Purgatory. They can be torn to shreds, but they won't die.

The force of their kisses ebbs, and they hold each other, standing upright in a timeless universe.

"I'm gonna stay right here," Dean whispers in Castiel's ear. "Until Sam rescues us, I'm not gonna move. I'm just gonna stay right here."

"Promise," Castiel says, and maybe it's a request, or a demand, or a promise of his own. Or all three.

"I promise."

"Dean." Castiel buries his head in Dean's shoulder. His arms tighten around Dean's body. The warmth flowing between them is brighter than a million suns. "Dean."

"Dean."

Dean's eyes fly open. In the corner of his eye, he can see the bright blue shock of Castiel's own widening eyes.

He whispers.

"Sam?"

* * *

Sam's whole being is focused on the opening in front of him. He can see through solid stone right now, and his eyes are piercing worlds.

A moment ago it wasn't like that. A moment ago he was still operating in this world, even with his hands coated with blood and muck, painting arcane symbols on the wall of an abandoned garage at the edge of town. The mixture -- Leviathan goo and the blood of one slightly weakened hacker (who watches even now, from the corner of the room, one hand on the bandage that staunches the wound on her arm) -- smells horrible, and it was making him sick as he daubed circles and angles on the wall. He gagged every time he returned to the jar to swipe his fingers into the mixture.

But even then his mind was on the real world. On Kevin's face when he emerged from the darkness, heartbreak and trauma etched onto his face. Who knows how long he'd been down there in Hell time, kept captive if not tortured, and it showed. The Advanced Placement kid who'd begged not to be killed, the one with bright dreams, was hidden in the shadows that fell across Kevin's expression now, cowering and afraid to come out. Jody had gone to him, pulled him into her arms, and promised him he was safe, he was going to go home and see his mom. Sam remembered seeing tears in her own eyes. Finally, a son she could save.

He's in there now with her, with Crowley, slowly spelling out the meaning to the symbols scratched on the page. Sam doesn't fear Crowley's having the prophecy; prophecies, he's discovered, are only as immutable as you allow them to be, and he doesn't give a damn what was written or what destiny had decided long ago. That's the edge he earned from averting the apocalypse.

Still, Jody's in the room with them, making sure every word is heard by the human side, and she'll be reporting back. Whatever that prophecy holds, Sam knows, it might open the door to the next big fight. And he's got to be prepared. But first, he's got to finish this job.

So he speaks the final word of the incantation, and he stares through solid walls into the other side of the world. Somehow he knew it would look and sound like this -- darkness, endless forests, and the howls of monsters, hopelessness and violence roiling the landscape like the hazy ripples of a heat wave. But piercing through it all is the bright glow of a soul he recognizes and loves. Sam reaches out and calls its name.

* * *

If Dean is ever forced to describe the color of the sky that opens above them at that moment, he'll say it is the color of music.

The color of AC/DC and Beethoven, the color of love songs and death metal. of everything that makes the world he knows harmonic and dissonant and gorgeous. It's the color of the sound of the living world, and through it all, Sam's voice reaching out like an extended arm.

"Dean!"

Sight and sound are all mixed up in his mind, but Castiel's in his arms, and that at least makes perfect sense. He shoots a grin in Castiel's direction, and they still hold tight to each other as their faces lift to the sky and they shout Sam's name in return.

The sky replies.

“Dean? Dean, I can hear you! And Cas, too. Come on. Come home!"

Every note in the scale appears, and he can hear every color of the rainbow. The rules of the universe turn upside down. They fall upward from the surface of purgatory and drown in sound.

His head is tucked against Castiel's, his lips brushing Castiel's cheek at the side of his mouth. "We're going home, Cas," he whispers, and he can feel the real, full smile that stretches Castiel's lips at the words.

"I know," Castiel says.

The music of the sky stretches out until it's a single violin playing an extended, high note. It lingers, then fades out, and the world goes dark.

* * *

Dean blinks. His shoulders ache. His body's cramped and crumpled into an uncomfortable position, and Castiel's snoring above him, limp as a rag doll, his breaths even. Dean has to extricate himself slowly. He laughs. "Cas," he says. "Cas, wake up, dude. Look."

He's still looking himself, though, and it takes him a while to even recognize the surfaces and materials he hasn't seen in so long. The floor they're on, hard, cold – concrete. Walls and a ceiling – he hasn't seen either for ages. The strange, musty smell in the air is foreign, too, but with another blink he's awake enough to recognize that this is some lonely, abandoned building. Earth. Home. The living world.

He sighs and leans back against the cool of the floor, relishing the shock that runs through his head. Above him, beyond the out-of-focus lump that is a passed-out angel, he recognizes a pattern painted on a wall in brown-red. The portal to purgatory. The rest of his brain and body lurch awake in in an instant.

"Cas, get the hell up or I am gonna dump you on the floor."

Now, finally, Castiel blinks. Dean rolls his eyes, snorts, and dumps him as promised. He's gotta get to his feet.

The world rights itself, and Dean fights the blackness that comes with a sudden rise. He blinks, hard, until his vision stops existing in patches and starts to resolve around a familiar figure.

"Sam," he says. His body crumples and he pushes himself against the wall to stay upright. God, he's _hungry._

But it's _Sam_.

Screw hunger and a passed-out Cas on the floor, screw the coldness and the smell of mildew in the air, Sam's a few paces away and getting closer every minute, and damn, but Dean has missed that smile and that out-of-control hair and those gigantic hands. He falls into Sam's arms, clasps him tight, and even the odor of a stinky up-all-night, just-dipped-his-hands-in-Leviathan-blood-to-cast-a-spell Sam is the best thing he's ever smelled in his life. He pushes his head into Sam's shoulder, taking shuddering breaths.

"It's OK, Dean," Sam murmurs in his ear. "It's OK. You're home."

"Damn frigging straight I'm home," Dean says weakly. "Took you long enough." He pulls back, looks Sam in the face, suddenly full of questions. "How long has it been, anyway?"

Sam shrugs and looks over his shoulder briefly. For the first time, Dean registers that he's not alone. "The hell, you picked up two girls while I was gone?"

"He wishes," says Jody Mills from behind Sam. Charlie Bradbury just swings her free hand in a loose wave.

"The hell, man," Dean mumbles as his eyes catch sight of another figure in the dimness. "Is that--"

"We've got a lot to talk about," Sam says. "A lot to catch up on. Later."

Dean nods. He doesn't really want too many details. He has enough of his own to share, when he's got his strength back and gotten this world under his feet again. "Later works."

Sam's looking past Dean now. "Is Cas OK?"

"He's passed out." Dean rolls his eyes. "He gets like this when he's really exhausted. You can't wake him. And I've tried." As though on cue, Castiel inhales in an awful snore and curls his body on the cold floor as though he's tossing on a comfortable bed.

Dean snorts. He extricates himself from the embrace with a final few pats on Sam's back and crosses his arms over his chest. "Kind of don't want to wake him, actually."

"Dean, _there_ ," Castiel murmurs in his sleep, and Dean can practically _hear_ Sam's eyebrows shoot up.

"Sounds like a good dream."

Dean flushes. "You're not kidding about a lot to catch up on. Help me with this guy?"

* * *

It's near dawn, and Kevin's already packed into the back seat of Jody's car, asleep. "Hope he'll stay that way for the whole ride," Sam says, nodding at the tousled head of black hair as he transfers one more bag of rock salt-packed bullets from the Impala's trunk to Jody's. "Something tells me he didn't get much shut-eye down there."

Jody nods. "Is that everything?"

Sam does a quick inventory of the back of her car. "It'd be enough to keep me alive between here and Kevin's place. You're sure you're good alone?" Jody looks at him sidelong, and he shrugs. "Right, sorry."

She laughs. "Actually, I think we forgot tissues. Something tells me I'm going to cry when he sees his mom again."

"Oh, come on. Hunters don't need tissues." This gets him the glare again, but this time Sam expects it. "Kidding, kidding." He slides a hand onto the top of the trunk, shuts it. The slam wakes a bird and startles it out of a nearby tree, but Kevin dozes on. "Seriously, Jody..." He clears his throat.

She pauses halfway through the act of pulling out her keys, and digs her hands into her pockets. "Hm?"

He considers her face a moment. "If this is really what you want to do," he says carefully, "and if this is the life you want... then I just want you to know, you'd be a damn good hunter. And I'd be proud to work with you on any job."

Jody smiles. Walking up to him, she leans forward, hands still fisted inside her jacket. "You better mean that."

"I do. In fact..." He clears his throat again, reaches into his jacket and pulls out a bunch of paper-clipped bits of newsprint.

She pulls out one hand and takes it from him, flipping the pages back one by one. "This is..." she starts.

"About three towns over from where you're going. I'd check it out myself, but..." He shrugs and looks over his shoulder at the house. "It might take us a few days to get sorted out. So if you want to check it out, I'm thinking poltergeist."

The smile that slips across her face is a little too cute to resist, and before he can think straight, he's leaning down to catch it. His lips fall on the corner of her mouth, so it’s not quite a full kiss, but it’s not completely chaste, either. A sunrise of a touch, full of opening possibilities.

She lets it linger less than a moment, then steps away, tucking the clippings under her arm, all business. "I'll let you know if I need backup," she says, and raises her other arm in a wave.

Another moment and she's marched to the car and slid inside. Her eyes catch his in the rear view mirror briefly, then the rising sun flashes across the surface and he has to blink it away. By the time he can see again, the car's already rolled out of the driveway. He watches it go, smiling, feeling the sun warm his skin as it ascends into the morning sky.

* * *

The sunshine hitting Castiel's face finally opens his eyes. For a moment, he flounders, utterly lost in the softness around him. Dean watches him sniff the air and laughs when his face contorts in confusion at the fresh, sweet smell that surrounds him. The laughter rouses Castiel, and he focuses on Dean, seated comfortably on a chair near the bed. "Dean?" He swallows. "Are we...?"

"Hey, Cas." Dean smiles. "Yeah, we are."

"So Sam..." Castiel's eyes widen. He starts to push himself upright. "I want to thank him." His arms buckle under him, and his body trembles as he fights to get up.

"Easy, easy." Dean reaches out to hold him steady. "Don't get out of bed. Not yet."

Castiel fights for a second, then decides on a different tactic. He rests one hand on Dean's chest, and his eyes darken. "I won't, if you join me."

"All right, tiger, enough out of you." Dean settles him down onto the pillow. "We're not alone here."

Castiel groans in defeat. "I think I'm hungry."

"I know you are. I stuffed myself while you were sleeping. Did in half a White Castle. You would have approved."

"I feel weak," Castiel says, distress in his voice. "I feel... not entirely myself."

A chill claws at Dean's heart. "Human?"

"No. Just... weak."

"Well. You've been through a lot."

Castiel gives a soft laugh. "So have you."

"True. But I'm used to it." Dean's arm is crooked over the edge of bed, and Castiel slides a hand onto his. The simple warmth of it carries them through several quiet, golden moments of morning sunshine.

Sam peeps in from the doorway. "Hey, Castiel. Good to see you awake." His face is sunny, but Dean would know that tone of relief from anguish anywhere. He meets his brother's eyes, then turns back to Castiel, who has managed to sit up.

"Sam. Where are we?"

"Jody-- the Sheriff's place. She's gone to bring Kevin home, she'll be back in a day or two." His lips twist. "Or longer. We'll see."

"Oh, I see." Castiel gazes at Sam, and Dean can tell he's fighting for words. It's funny, but the three of them are probably equally bad at words of gratitude. Appreciation. Happiness. None of them were raised with much of any of it, and having those emotions in abundance now plants all three of them in unfamiliar territory. Dean squeezes his hand, and Castiel's eyes dart to his, seeking reassurance that he doesn't have to come up with the words right away.

Sam picks up on the vibe. "Well, I'm gonna bring you some breakfast once it's done, so hang tight. I'll leave you two alone."

Dean rolls his eyes. "We've been alone for months."

"Then another few minutes won't kill you," Sam says lightly, and disappears from the doorway.

Dean grumbles, but Castiel is smiling now. "He has a point." Lifting a corner of the bedspread, he fixes Dean with pleading eyes.

"Once you get an idea, there's no stopping you," Dean says, grimacing at him. But he slides onto the bed, and the sleepy heat of Castiel's body bleeds into his skin almost immediately. He gives a groan. "All right. A couple of minutes, then we're rejoining the world. Been away from it too long."

But as he settles down into the bed and pulls Castiel close, he's suddenly grateful for the chance to linger in the morning. Especially after making it through such a long, dark night.

The world will wait a few minutes more.

 **The End**  



End file.
